


The Hawk and the Wolf

by Lynnwood



Series: The Tevinter AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: AU Tevinter Style, Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Because Danarius is a Dick, Because You Can't Have Fenris Without Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, F/M, Kind've a Slow Burn, M/M, Mention of past rape/non-con, Possible Fluff, Slavery, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynnwood/pseuds/Lynnwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up on the streets of Minrathous from the age of twelve, the young Laetan mage Garrett Hawke doesn't care about much beyond making sure his twin siblings stay safe and avenging the wrongful death of his father at the hands of Magister Danarius. When that day of revenge finally comes, he suddenly finds himself unexpectedly owner to everything the corrupt magister once held dear. That includes wealth, fame, a massive estate and most notably the man's terrifying and embittered elven slave-bodyguard, Fenris. Now Hawke has to figure out his new place in the hierarchy of Minrathous, how he's going to fit into it all going into the future. All the while doing his best not to get murdered in his sleep by the enemies that abound, both within and without.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty then, another foray into the world of Dragon Age fan-fiction. Yaaay. I have tentative hopes of this being a multiple-chapter—and eventually a multiple-story—series. No idea how long exactly they’ll be in the end, we’ll both discover that together I suppose. The general setting of this tale is fairly canonical Thedas, but AU in the sense that the characters and thus the story are based in the country of Tevinter, with all that that entails. Tevinter culture means slavery and possibly other things that may or may not be trigger-worthy. So please pay attention to the tags. 
> 
> For setting purposes the Fifth Blight still happens, but the Mage-Templar war, Corypheus and the Breach do not. 
> 
> This is probably going to be full of over-done tropes and I don’t even care, because I live for fluffy, tropey nonsense. And smut. I also live for comments and kudos, hopefully you enjoy my ramblings enough to leave one or both of those.

The Volturnus was full to bursting that night, as it was most nights in Minrathous. The largish tavern was tucked into a side-street of the famed Vivazzi Plaza, not posh enough to be openly frequented by the upper class but too upscale to be frequented by the dregs. It was also close enough to the central square to be popular but far enough away to still be considered dangerous and clandestine. A perfect combination in all respects that the owner had wisely capitalized on.

Garrett Hawke stared out now at the loud, boisterous scenery before him without really seeing—or even hearing—much. He was far too lost into his own dark thoughts at the moment to take proper heed of his surroundings. A dangerous venture indeed for one in his currently tenuous position, and one that would have brought far more worry if he were not surrounded on all fronts by possibly the only three people in all of Thedas that he could completely trust with his life and well-being.

The eldest Hawke was flanked on either side by his younger siblings, a set of twins; Bethany and Carver. Two years younger than his twenty-eight, Bethany was the eldest of the two by three minutes and a mage, like he was. Carver was the baby of the trio and it tended to show in his frequently petulant manner, further set apart by being the only non-magic-user among what remained of the Hawke family. Garrett never could fully understand Carver’s frequent feelings of frustrated inadequacy, bristling at any comparison made between them—imagined or otherwise—and constantly attempting to prove his worth and usually to his own detriment. It wasn’t as if the kid was unskilled with that massive blade that usually rested between his shoulder-blades, currently sitting now at his side against the table within easy reach. That blade and the man wielding it had certainly protected his back enough times in the past, as much as Bethany had if not more with her magic.

Still, life was never easy in the Tevinter Imperium even in the best of circumstances. Incredibly less so for the non-magically inclined. Hawke sneered a little at that. Well, perhaps there _was_ some explanation to his baby brother’s constant disquiet after all.

The Ferelden apostate Malcolm Hawke could have gone anywhere after he escaped the Kirkwall Gallows for the final time, all those years ago. Arm in arm with his ‘stolen’ bride Leandra, all of Thedas was open to them. Why they had chosen to turn north-west into Tevinter was still much of a mystery. If they’d gone to Nevarra or Antiva or Orlais—or, Maker forbid, even _Ferelden_ —Hawke imagined all of their lives would have turned out quite differently than they had.

Instead of any of those other choices, his father had settled in Minrathous and indentured himself to the first magister willing to take on a Ferelden apostate. Indentured servitude was barely a step above an Imperial-owned slave but his father was strong, stubborn and determined. Traits his children had eventually inherited. By the time those children were old enough to understand their surroundings, Malcolm had managed to earn himself and his family citizenship, the rank of Laetan and the modicum of respect that came with it. They weren’t powerful and they weren’t rich, but they were together, they were safe and well-fed. For a time, that had been enough.

Then his father had been killed. Murdered.

Oh, they had _claimed_ Malcolm Hawke a vicious maleficar—a laughable enough offense when ninety-percent of the upper echelons of Tevinter mages practiced exactly what they had accused him of and worse behind closed doors. And it certainly didn’t matter that his father had never so much as pricked his finger to power a spell in his life, much less summon demons or drain slaves for blood magic as they’d accused.

No, Malcolm’s only crime had been speaking out against a powerful magister. He’d been rashly fearless of the fact that he himself had no real power and therefore no protection against such dangerous animosity. His father only cared that the magister in question was a cruel and capricious bastard deserving of far worse than the public set-down that had been served to him.

Garrett had only been twelve the night they came for him. Malcolm had fled the south to escape the templars and their tyranny, how ironic that it had still been templars who’d taken his life even after all he’d done to get free of them. He could still remember the terror that gripped his chest in a cold vice, could still remember his mother’s screams of desperate denial and the twins’ fearful tears. More than all of that though, Garrett starkly remembered the look his father threw him as the templars dragged him away. It was equal parts defeat and defiance, and the memory of it would be forever seared into his brain.

“Look after them Garrett!” he'd yelled wildly as the soldiers wrestled him through the door of their modest home and into the darkness beyond.

Garrett had sworn to himself that he would, somehow, and he'd held true to that vow these past sixteen years. Even after they'd all lost their home and most of the standing their father had earned them in the ensuing scandal. Even after their mother died years later from wasting sickness, mostly due to never-ending depression and the poor conditions they'd been forced to live in ever since. Garrett took care of his brother and sister ever after to the best of his ability. Otherwise he devoted every last ounce of his time, power and considerable will to preparing himself to utterly ruin the man who'd killed his father and destroyed his family.

It was no small task ahead of him, that was certain. Garrett Hawke was a very strong and talented mage, that was true, but he had no patron to teach him properly and no power base to fall back on. His adversary on the other hand was one of the more powerful mages in the entirety of the Magisterium, with all the coin, allies and resources that status entailed. He was also a decade or two older as well, which meant more knowledge and more practical experience. None of that mattered to Garrett, of course. He would have his due. His father would have vengeance.

Danarius would die by his hand, or Hawke himself would die trying.

Hawke was brought rather forcefully out of his reverie when a stout hand suddenly waved in front of his face. He reared back slightly, then slid a silent glare toward the offender who sat across the table from him. The dwarf in question merely huffed out a laugh, completely unfazed.

“Here I am, trying to give you valuable, potentially _life-saving_ intel, and you're day-dreaming,” Varric Tethras murmured into the rim of his mug. “Only you, Hawke.”

Hawke snorted a little at that, somewhat against his will but that was one of Varric's many talents—making him laugh whether he wanted to or not. Garrett wasn't a cruel man but he was focused, determined. Also very cautious and incredibly wary of the constant threat of betrayal. As such, he didn't have many friends. Really only had the one, actually, and that was Varric himself. Mostly because the damnable dwarf refused to take 'Piss off,' for an answer.

The second-son of House Tethras, member in good standing of the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, Varric had grown up most of his life in the Free Marches, to hear him tell it. It was only in the last five years that he'd relocated to Tevinter, to oversee some of his family's holdings there. Garrett got the impression that there was more to that particular tale but—despite a tendency to tell every other story under the sun to whomever would listen and even some who wouldn't—Varric's own tale remained much of a mystery. The dwarven 'merchant' spent most of his time frequenting the Volturnus drinking and playing Wicked Grace, on the streets of the Vivazzi Plaza managing his impressive spy network or at Hawke's side driving him to complete and utter distraction.

“Please listen to him, Big Brother,” Bethany suddenly murmured and Garrett winced at the tremor of fear in her gentle voice, dark eyes watery with unshed tears. “We need all the help we can get.” Carver remained silent and largely sullen for the time being, but his fear and worry was no less than his twin's, visible in the lines that bracketed his too young blue eyes and mouth.

“Sorry, Varric,” he managed, reaching for his own tankard and taking a pull of the ale within. The dwarf waved away his apology, unperturbed.

He addressed Bethany instead, though, with, “don't you worry, Sunshine. I promised I'd get us an advantage and I always deliver, don't I?” His confident grin and eyebrow waggle managed to tease a smile from her at least and Garrett was inwardly grateful. “My man on the inside says it'll be a standard mage duel. Good news is apparently Danarius doesn't think you're gonna be much of a challenge so there's no talk of 'boosting' his abilities beforehand.”

Garrett knew Danarius' arrogance would ultimately work in his favor, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow. The soft growl that rumbled out of Carver on his other side echoed the sentiment.

“His apprentice Hadriana will be his Second,” Varric continued, and that was no surprise. “Since you're only Laetan, they're not bothering with the Grand Proving Arena either. It'll be held in Danarius' estate, which is somewhat worrying for the home turf advantage aspect but no less than we expected, either. The real wild card of the whole affair is Danarius' pet-slave-bodyguard-experiment-whatever the hell you want to call him.”

Hawke felt his eyebrow lift, curious. “What's so special about him?”

Varric leaned forward, voice dropping to avoid being overheard as well as for theatrical effect. “I've never seen him in person myself, but I've _heard_ about the bastard enough. Danarius apparently took one of his favorite elven slaves and carved actual _lyrium_ _tattoos_ into his skin. All over his body.”

“Maker,” Bethany breathed, eyes wide.

“What would that even do?” Carver demanded right after, brow furrowed in confusion.

“He'd be a constant and convenient source of mana, for one,” Hawke cut in softly, expression thoughtful, and Varric nodded.

“He's also apparently twice as strong as a normal man and there're stories of him putting his _fist_ through people's chests, bypassing armor and flesh entirely and crushing their damned hearts in his fingers like an overripe melon.”

“Shit,” it was Carver's turn to exclaim aloud, while all Bethany managed was a wide-eyed stare and a hand curling defensively around her throat. Hawke's expression never wavered.

“By all accounts the elf will be there—he never leaves Danarius' side to hear it told—but he's not supposed to be interfering in the duel itself,” Varric continued. “I stress 'not supposed to.' There will be a representative from the Magisterium to officiate things and witness the bout to supposedly insure it's a fair fight, but don't hold your breath on the man not holding at least some sort of slant in Danarius' favor. Fairly certain he'll be firmly in the magister's pocket. The old bastard is too careful not to see to something simple like that.”

“Bethany, you'll need to see to the apprentice,” Hawke murmured and his sister nodded, if not entirely confident then at least determined not to let him down. Hawke trusted her abilities, however. His sister was a talented elementalist—far more talented than she gave herself credit for—and by all accounts this Hadriana was as lazy as she was cruel. “Carver, Varric, it'll be up to you two to keep an eye on the bodyguard. I won't be able to watch for his interference on top of dealing with Danarius.”

“Certainly,” Carver mused bitterly. “'Keep an eye' on the super-strong lyrium ghost elf. No problem.”

Varric laughed while Hawke didn't bother to deign the comment with more than a faint eye-roll. “C'mon Junior, what's life without a little danger and excitement?”

“I'd prefer to keep my heart right where it is, if it's all the same dwarf. _Uncrushed_.”

Hawke turned a little in his seat, fixing his younger brother with a steady stare, expression shuttered. “Do you have my back?” The youngest Hawke drew himself up as if he'd been kicked, cheeks flushed and blue eyes sparking indignant fury.

“I'm with you, brother,” he ground out roughly. “Always.”

“Always,” Bethany softly parroted, her hand curling around his bicep in a comforting grip.

Hawke nodded at that, one of his own hands covering hers. The finality, the inevitability of the coming fight settled itself about his shoulders, cold and stark with purpose. “Always.”

The dwarf eyed the trio and slowly shook his head before draining the rest of his tankard. “One of these days I'm going to put this all in a book.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Carver is supposed to be the 'second child' and thus eldest of the twins, but it works better for my story if he's the baby. So in this, he is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a bit of magic-y violence and some blood and gory bits, just to forewarn you. Hopefully the fight scene manages to be decent. One of the two hardest things to write in my opinion; fight scenes and sex scenes. Ugh, the details! The choreography! *wanders off still muttering*

Hawke led the way through the large and lavish outer courtyard leading into the heart of the monster's lair the next day. Varric let out a low, grudging whistle through his teeth from where the dwarf trailed a step behind him and to the left, at the sheer opulence of their surroundings. The area was full of lush greenery and exotic flowers in a vivid riot of color, framed by intricate fountains and carved marble statuary. Hawke purposefully ignored it all, his focus settled on the goal at hand and that of putting one foot in front of the other.

The others followed behind him as a nameless slave led the way inside the equally lavish estate. Hawke felt more than heard the twins from where they stood shoulder to shoulder and a step behind Varric. They all followed a path through the front foyer and through a side corridor, then out to what must be their final destination. An expansive and mostly empty enclosure of stone tiles surrounded on all sides by high walls and shrubbery shielding against any prying eyes. A training yard or—in this case—a dueling arena.

The slave bowed low toward the group waiting for them, then scurried off and disappeared into the depths of the house. Hawke faced off with his adversary, squaring his shoulders as well as his resolve. There were four of them waiting, three seated at a small table set with refreshments while the fourth stood alone and off to the side.

Hawke's attention immediately centered on Danarius first. He was slender and somewhat unassuming beneath his green and white robes—the typical build of a lifelong scholar and academic. He had his long iron-gray hair clubbed back in a short tail that brushed at the line of his shoulders, a thick beard of the same covering his lower jaw but not his mouth or upper lip. Hawke knew from past experience that his eyes were the same steel gray as his hair, cold and flat like a pair of mirrors. The older man had yet to turn in his direction, deigning instead to finish his drink rather than acknowledge their presence. As if they were hardly worth the bother to notice. The blatant slight immediately set his already frayed nerves on edge. Causing the mage to clench his jaw as well as his fists until his teeth ached and his nails began digging half-moons into the flesh of his palms.

A pale-skinned woman lounged at his side, who would have been pretty if not for the cold cruelty glinting out of her ice-blue eyes. She was probably around Hawke's own age or a little older, her dark hair framing her angular face like a curtain. Unlike her master, Hadriana stared directly at them over the rim of her crystal glass, eyes dancing with ill-hidden mirth and excitement at the entertainment to come.

The third seated figure was a man Hawke didn't recognize. His expression was mixed somewhere between mild curiosity and bland annoyance as he sat back from the table. Acknowledging them at least, rather than rudely ignoring him entirely like Danarius was. His short hair was also gray and his skin weathered with age, but his dark eyes were still razor sharp. His thin-lipped mouth pulled into a distasteful frown, framed by the stubbly wisps of what might have once been a rather impressive goatee.

And finally, the last of the group, the infamous bodyguard. The dark-skinned elf stood far enough away from his master to be out of the way but close enough at hand to come to his defense if needed. He was standing in the shadows of a nearby copse of trees, arms crossed over his chest and narrowed gaze trained on their group. He was deceptively slender and narrow in build, surely not strong enough to actually wield the massive sword strapped across his back. One that—blade and haft—was as long as the elf was tall. The hard, shuttered expression on his hauntingly handsome face told a far different story however. Hawke was too far away to determine the color of his eyes, only that they were large and dark and made a startling contrast to the snow-white hair that hung in front of them in wispy tendrils. Of course the most striking thing about the elf were his lyrium markings. The silvery-white metal was branded into his flesh in curling, arcing tendrils and a repeating cluster of three tiny dots, which seemed to cover his entire body. They snaked their way along his arms, up the front of his throat and onto his chin, visible across tops of his hands and the tops of his bare feet and likely connected to all the flesh in between currently hidden from view beneath his armor.

The elf was certainly quite a sight to look at and if Hawke had been free to do so he probably would've been reduced to outright staring in open fascination. As it was he allowed himself only the merest once-over to assess the potential threat before forcefully setting the elf from his mind. It would be up to Carver and Varric to keep watch on him, as it was Bethany's responsibility to keep after Hadriana. Hawke didn't have anything to spare; every ounce of his attention and determination had to be focused on Danarius if he had any hope of coming out of this alive.

After a long, pregnant pause—and Varric sighing loudly beside him with a muttered _'Really?!'_ —Danarius finally deigned to grace him with his attention. He stood and turned, fixing Hawke with a razored grin.

“Ah, I see we have company. The foolish Ferelden upstart has come for his pound of flesh.” The other magister got to his feet and followed a few of the steps that Danarius made toward them. Hadriana remained reclining on a fine chaise lounge, content to watch for now it seemed. The lyrium-marked slave didn't move either.

“Do you know, I actually had to have Hadriana investigate who you were after you sent your rude, boorish challenge?” Danarius suddenly mused, tone casual as if he were discussing the weather. “I had absolutely no idea who you were, and I barely even remembered your father even after she reminded me of the incident. I can't possibly be expected to remember _every_ worthless peasant who gets in my way, now can I?”

Hawke heard Carver snarl and then a scuffling rustle behind him. No doubt Bethany being forced to hold him back from where the younger man had instinctively lunged forward to answer the insult. Hawke himself didn't move, nor did he speak, merely allowing Danarius' vitriol to further feed the knot of hot fury in his gut. He would need that rage in the battle to come.

“I didn't know the Ferelden apostate even _had_ any whelps,” he continued mercilessly, “but now here you are! Years later, bristling with righteous anger, ready to avenge your worthless Dog Lord father and whatever scrap of honor you think is owed you! Quite the inspiring tale, almost worthy of the stage. Such a shame you're just going to end up dead and torn limb from limb, fed to the stray dogs in the gutter.”

Danarius' ranting was suddenly interrupted by the other magister letting out a loud, aggrieved sigh. “Really, Danarius, are you _quite_ finished? I've far more interesting and important research to see to, as you well know. I don't have all day to stand here listening to you monologue.”

Hawke felt his eyebrow lift a little at that and Varric actually snorted out a laugh behind him. Hadriana scowled in surprise at the slight but other than a nearly imperceptible tightening of the skin around his mouth, Danarius remained unfazed by the jab.

“Quite right, Alexius,” he called, turning slightly in the other man's direction. “Do forgive me, my friend.” The other just motioned for him to get on with it before crossing his arms, looking completely bored and more than ready for the whole affair to be done with.

Hawke motioned for the others to move away and they did so slowly, tensed for any sign of trouble. He reached back and pulled his staff from its sling across his shoulders. It was simple but sturdy, a dark and well-worn mahogany that bent at odd angles here or there from the knots in the wood. A plain milky focusing crystal rested in the gnarled tendrils that sprouted from the top, but a long and wickedly curved iron blade jutted from the bottom, sharpened to a deadly edge. It audibly cut the air as Hawke twisted his wrist and sent the weapon briefly whirling in a complicated and deadly dance.

Danarius merely sneered at the display, before turning slightly and addressing the elven slave with, “Fenris, my pet. My staff.” He'd been motionless up until now, but at that order the elf slipped from the shadows and up to his master's side with a rolling gait that could only be described as purely predatory. That display alone was somewhat unsettling. Even more disturbing however was how Danarius took the wicked-looking black metal staff that the slave proffered in one hand and then lifted his other hand to caress the elf's cheek. When his thumb passed over the lyrium that marked the elf's chin, the lines suddenly flared to life, pulsing with a hot white glow. Hawke could literally _feel_ the surge of mana even from a distance. The slave never even blinked as Danarius grinned at him possessively, merely stood frozen and impassive under the ministrations. His eyes—which Hawke could now see were a dark and mossy green—were utterly flat and lifeless. Dead. “Thank you, little wolf,” the older magister purred and Hawke grimaced, feeling a sickening wrench in his gut though he wasn't entirely sure why. “You may return.”

Again, without a word or even a twitch of emotion the elf turned on his heel and stalked back to his place in the shadows.

Danarius planted his staff onto the stone at his feet with a crack. It was smooth and well-made, no doubt highly enchanted and disgustingly expensive, carved into the shape of a writhing multi-headed serpent. No blade at the haft, which wasn't surprising. A man of Danarius' age had left the days of martial fighting far behind him, if there had even been any to begin with. “Well then, _Hawke?”_ the magister sneered at last. _“_ Shall we get to it?”

Without hesitation Hawke immediately launched himself forward with a feral cry, a bright bolt of lightning arcing from the head of his staff and shooting straight for the magister in front of him.

Danarius didn't make a move to dodge it and the bolt connected with an invisible barrier of force that the magister had surrounded himself with, fizzling away harmlessly. The older man grinned, amused at Hawke's apparently clumsy and futile attempt. That grin would quickly falter, however, when several chunks of rock the size of his head abruptly materialized around him—formed from the very Fade itself. Hawke made a sharp motion with his staff, which sent the multiple stonefist spells hurtling against Danarius' barrier all at once with the power of a Qunari cannon blast.

The older man let out a slight cry of shock, hunching slightly, his barrier dispelling under the sheer force. So stunned was he by the unexpected display of power and skill that he nearly missed Hawke rushing him with a snarl, swinging the blade-end of his staff at the older man's throat with every intention of slicing his head clean from his shoulders.

Danarius had been caught off-guard, but not bested. The older mage quickly threw up a powerful wall of flame between them, which roared upward and forced Hawke to pivot and dive to the side to avoid being incinerated. The shattered pieces of his stonefists suddenly flew from the ground and fused all over his body even as he rolled back to his feet, forming an impromptu suit of earthen armor to protect him from future attacks.

The two mages now began circling each other slowly, Hawke's expression full of furious determination and Danarius' now wreathed in a new level of alert wariness. The older mage still attempted to project an air of lazy indifference in his smile, but cracks were beginning to show in the facade. His fist was clenched hard around the neck of his staff and a faint trickle of sweat slid down the side of his face.

“I must admit, I wasn't expecting you to possess this much skill, Hawke,” he huffed with a deceptive chuckle. “Just as well, it wouldn't have been sporting if I could just slaughter you outright.”

Hawke tensed as Danarius' form shimmered and blurred and suddenly there was five of him spreading out in a fanned formation. All wearing a mirror copy of that same arrogant, sneering grin. Hawke threw up a barrier of his own as the mirror images each conjured a fireball and slung it at him. Impossible to tell exactly from where the real attack was coming, Hawke was unable to brace against the full brunt of the spell and the force knocked him back and off his feet. The barrier and the rock armor saved him from the worst of the damage, but one of his sleeves was charred away and the flesh beneath blistered. Most of his rock armor had fallen away as well, now destroyed.

Hawke didn't have time to regain his bearings either, forced to leap away yet again to avoid the jagged spikes of ice that shot up from the ground in an arc around him. He wasn't fast enough to avoid them all unfortunately, letting out a pained cry as one of the shards pierced through the meat of his left thigh and broke off when he fell. Hawke still struggled back to his feet, though now favoring his wounded leg. And managed to wipe the triumphant expression from the old bastard's face when he suddenly called down a chain-lightening spell that viciously arced back and forth between the mirror images. Dispelling the four illusions and causing the real Danarius to stumble back with a yell of startled pain.

The magister whirled back on him, all pretense of amusement gone now from his face, now a mask of indignant rage.

“Alright, I've had _quite enough_ out of you, Dog Lord,” he snarled before motioning intricately with his arms and staff. “It's past time I finish this.”

Hawke tensed, inwardly cursing as three Shades suddenly materialized from the shadows and slithered forward under the magister's thrall. He shot a glance toward the other magister who was supposed to be officiating this duel, wondering fleetingly if he would actually protest the summoning of _demons_ as a rather blatant and egregious breach of rules. Alexius merely lifted an eyebrow at the display, however, frowning.

“Well that's hardly sporting,” was his only comment and Hawke cursed under his breath. While expected, being proven right didn't make the situation any less infuriating either.

“Dirty cheating bastard!” Carver snarled from somewhere behind him, but Hawke couldn't turn to look. Not when the three demons were surging toward him now under Danarius' silent command to attack.

“Well if you're not cheating you're not trying,” Hadriana demurred, amused, from her perch seemingly without a care.

Hawke lashed out with his staff, landing a flurry of blows and just managing to hold the Shades at bay for several tense moments. The blade of his staff struck home and thrust deep, sending one of the demons to the ground in a hideously shrieking bundle before seeming to simply melt out of existence entirely. Unfortunately that left him open to the other two and he staggered as one of the Shades slashed him across the back with its razor-sharp claws, letting out a ragged cry. His wounded leg gave out and he hit one knee.

“Garrett!” Bethany screamed and his fists clenched around his staff. He was getting weaker by the second, blood and mana seeping from him in waves. Another slash of the claws across his face threw him back onto his back. Garrett instinctively curled into a defensive ball in an attempt to protect his vitals as the two demons immediately leaped on him, ripping and tearing at whatever flesh they could reach. He couldn't contain the scream of agony that tore from him either.

“Ah, such a pity,” Danarius voice suddenly laughed from somewhere, echoing oddly through the pain and chaos in his mind. “As much of a disappointment as your worthless father. But not to worry, I don't think I'll kill you just yet. I want you to watch me slaughter your companions first.”

_Look after them Garrett!_

His father's words suddenly blasted in his head like a clarion call. Hawke had made a vow. He'd _promised_ his father he'd keep his brother and sister safe, and there was no way in hell he'd fail them now. Drawing on reserves of power he didn't even know he had, Garrett suddenly lashed out around him with a bursting wave of pure energy. The demons were slung off of him and thrown back several feet with the sheer force of it.

Danarius was too shocked to react at first as the now ragged and bloody Hawke slowly rolled up onto his hands and knees. The younger mage seemingly ignored the multiple bleeding wounds that covered him as well as the fact that his staff had clattered some distance away. Instead he let out a defiant roar and the surrounding area was suddenly lit up with brilliant forks of lightening. Over and over the bolts slammed down from the otherwise clear blue sky above, cratering and charring the stone tiles wherever they struck. Danarius was forced to stumble back several feet to avoid being hit. The demons weren't so lucky, and the Shades disappeared back into the Fade with screaming wails.

Hawke slowly lifted up onto his knees then, chest heaving and panting for breath, eyes narrowed to slits. Danarius slung another fireball at him and Hawke batted it aside with his bare hand—encased in a barrier—blasting a flaming hole through the hedge wall instead.

And finally, finally, Danarius started to show fear. The older man stumbled back a bit further, clutching at his staff. “Hadriana—,” he started to call. Hawke saw the woman shoot to her feet and step forward. In the next instant she was flash-frozen, encased in ice and rooted to the stone floor below.

Alexius let out a startled murmur of surprise at the unexpected but powerful display, turning to flash Bethany—who'd cast the spell—a faintly impressed look. “Hm-m,” he murmured. “Not bad.”

Danarius started to cast another spell, but a snarling Hawke sent another stonefist directly into the older mage's gut. Throwing him off his feet and slamming him into the ground instead, where he slid back several feet. He scrambled back to his hands and knees, blood flooding down the side of his face from where he'd cracked it against the stone. Meanwhile Hawke somehow managed to stumble back to his feet, swaying a little but otherwise upright.

“Fenris!” Danarius shrieked then, turning toward his bodyguard with an expression of frantic fear. “Kill him! _Kill him now!”_

Nothing but silence answered him. Everyone else turned to the lyrium-laced slave to find the man frozen in place, though not through any spell. His face was no longer impassive, instead he stared at his master with wide-eyed disbelief. As if he could barely fathom the concept of someone actually besting the man. And then very slowly that shock began to turn into the beginnings of a bald, naked, almost violent hope that yes, it was _actually happening_.

It seemed Danarius' pet wouldn't be interfering after all.

Hawke took savage pleasure in the utterly terrified expression on the older man's face. Grimacing with fury and concentration, he made a sudden raking motion with one hand and Danarius let out a scream as a huge clawed fist made of shimmering force appeared and clamped viciously into one side of his torso. Fingers sinking deep into his chest and belly. Hawke repeated the motion with his other hand and a matching clawed fist sunk into the other side of his chest. Danarius' scream turned onto a wet gurgle as blood began bubbling up and out of his gaping mouth. Hawke swayed again on his feet, but held the pose of the spell through sheer stubborn determination. He scowled down at the man who had haunted his nightmares, twisted his waking thoughts and fed his fury and hatred for sixteen long and hellish years.

“Malcolm Hawke sends his regards,” he rasped out at last, voice like shards of gravel.

Then he twisted and ripped his curled fists apart in one sharp motion. The massive claws mirrored the gesture and Danarius was quite literally ripped in half with a spray of blood and viscera.

Hawke must have blacked out after that, as the next thing he knew he was slowly regaining consciousness from where he must have collapsed on the spot. Bethany was hovering over him, pumping every last ounce of her mana into healing spells trying to repair the damage he'd suffered. He was apparently leaning back and against Carver, who had one arm wrapped around his chest supporting him and the other gripping the hilt of his sword. His brother's blue eyes were still fixed on the others in the courtyard, in no way dropping his guard.

Varric just sat at his side, shaking his head and running a faintly trembling hand through his hair.

“Maferath's _balls_ , Hawke,” the dwarf huffed out. “I can't believe you just did that. You should be dead three times over, you crazy son-of-a-bitch. You probably gave me gray chest hairs with all this bullshit. I fully expect you to buy me a round later, after this. You owe me for the ten years you just scared off my life.”

Hawke somehow found the energy to chuckle a little, though it sounded rough in his own ears. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Well then,” another voice suddenly called, startling all of them. They turned to the other magister, Alexius, who was currently staring down rather dispassionately at what was left of Danarius. “That was most unexpected.”

Hawke tensed, eyes narrowing. He sat up and at an unspoken gesture the twins quickly helped him back to his feet. Varric did the same, clutching his crossbow in his hands as they turned to face Alexius as one. The worst of his wounds were healed but he was still completely drained and exhausted, forced to rely on Carver's support to remain upright. He eyed the magister warily as Alexius finally turned from the mess and faced him. If this magister was of a mind to avenge his 'friend' now, there wasn't much he was going to be able to do about it.

The older man didn't attack them, though. He merely sighed, clasping his hands into the small of his back, and then suddenly began speaking in a formal and official sort of tone. “With the power granted me by the Magisterium, I declare you—Garrett Hawke—undisputed champion of this duel. Congratulations.”

Hawke blinked a little at that unexpected gesture. “Uh . . . thanks,” he finally managed. Not his greatest offering of speech, but surely some allowances could be made for his current condition. He felt as though a herd of giants had just finished trampling over the top of him.

Alexius merely 'hm-med' at that, then sniffed a little in distaste. “I certainly don't envy you the task of getting rid of _this_ mess,” he pronounced sourly with another glance back at the massive bloodstain that had once been a hated and feared magister.

Hawke's confusion deepened. “What . . . why would that be my problem?” he demanded. Not noticing at first how Varric had suddenly gone very still beside him with shock.

“Oh, didn't I mention?” Alexius suddenly exclaimed, giving a startled blink or two. “Danarius might not have bothered with the Proving Arena, but this was still an official duel. Sanctioned and overseen by the Magisterium. Under the law, everything that belonged to the loser of said duel now belongs to the victor.”

Bethany let out a strangled gasp, while Hawke just stared, too shocked to speak. Carver wasn't so afflicted, releasing a breathy, _“oh shit!”_

Alexius just nodded sagely. “What happens to Danarius' seat in the Magisterium will be left up to the Archon to decide of course,” he murmured matter-of-factly. “Your rank of Laetan will not change. However this estate, his wealth, his property; all the spoils of your hard-won victory. Do enjoy them. I'll see to it that the necessary documents are drawn up, signed and stored away in the Imperial Archives in the morning.”

While the others remained largely in shock, Alexius suddenly turned and stepped over to where Hadriana was still encased in ice. “Now, I'm sure you're all a-tremble at the thought of bursting out of this spell and avenging your former master in a blaze of righteous glory,” he murmured to the immobilized woman. “I would strongly advise against it, however. It would behoove you not to give the Hawkes any reason to let you add to the gore currently littering this courtyard. I'm sure you see the wisdom of this and agree.” He paused as if waiting for an answer, even though Hadriana was completely incapable of giving one at the moment. Then the magister turned to Bethany and flashed her a surprisingly friendly smile. “Do be a dear and drop the spell now, my lady. I think Hadriana will be perfectly well-behaved. For now, at least.”

Bethany only hesitated for a moment—casting a questioning glance at him and Hawke nodded for her to proceed—before gesturing sharply with one hand and causing the ice prison to shatter and dissipate. Hadriana stumbled forward a little, her lavender silk robes now damp and rumpled, hair disheveled. Her cheeks flushed with fury and her icy eyes fair smoldered with the same, but Alexius had guessed correctly. For now, she didn't make any moves to attack them. Garrett was certain he'd need to keep an eye out for her dagger in his back in the future, but for the moment he had no legal cause to put the woman down. No matter how much his instinct was currently screaming at him to do so.

Therefore he made no move to stop him or object when Alexius curled a hand around Hadriana's arm and began bodily forcing the stiff female to start walking off the property. “Well, I believe we shall take our leave, then. Good luck holding on to your new good fortune, Hawke,” he called in parting. The magister suddenly hesitated at the doorway, though, glancing back over his shoulder and meeting Varric's still shell-shocked stare. “Oh, and Master Tethras? Magister Tilani sends her best wishes.”

At that Varric burst out laughing, and kept right on laughing until somewhat hysterical tears were streaming down his face and Alexius and Hadriana were long gone. “I'll be damned,” was all he could wheeze. “I'll be Maker damned. This crazy shit could only happen to you, Hawke. Only to you!”

Though inclined to agree, Hawke wasn't entirely sure whether or not that was such a good thing. After all, if he now owned everything that had once belonged to Danarius, that included the dangerous elf still hovering in the shadows. A powerful living weapon that Hawke knew nothing about and had no idea how to control, and who appeared to be only a step or two above being completely feral. Who was staring directly at him now with wary distrust, tensed and coiled for anything.

Hawke felt another wave of exhaustion hit him square in the chest and struggled not to just collapse under the strength of it, wondering, _just what in the hell am I supposed to do now?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been updating the tags as I go, as things I hadn't necessarily planned on crop up--as they do during the whole free-form writing process. Normally I let it go without drawing attention, but this one's a bit of a biggie so I thought I'd point it out. There's some mention of rape/non-con in this chapter. Because Danarius is a Dick with a capital D. I think we can all agree on that. So, just be aware.
> 
> Anyhow, much love to everyone who's read, left Kudos or commented so far. They're the life-blood and a great motivator to continue, making the effort seem worthwhile. So thank you very much!
> 
> And now without further ado, let's get our first peek into our Broody elf's point-of-view, shall we?
> 
> EDIT - Apologies for the weird formatting errors (bizarre spaces or lack of spaces where there should/shouldn't be). As soon as I can figure out how to fix them I will.

The rest of the day and all of the following night had passed now, and Fenris still hadn't surfaced fully from the numb shock that gripped him at witnessing his master's—his _former_ master's—grisly death.

His entire life had been a never-ending parade of pain and debasement, what little he could remember of his life at least, and with no visible end in sight. Fenris wasn't entirely certain just what it was about him that had endeared him so strongly to Danarius, but the older mage had been near-obsessed. He delighted in using Fenris thoroughly in every possible way he could think of. A dubious honor, as the evil magister had taken sick pleasure in hurting and shaming him just as much as he did anything else.

Hadriana had resented all of the attention Fenris garnered from the magister—cruel or otherwise—so she'd always been quick to make his existence even more hellish whenever and however she could. So long as she didn't mar his body or his appearance, Danarius would rarely feel moved to intervene. So the bitch frequently denied him meals, interrupted his sleep and slung a never-ending barrage of vicious insults at him; delighting in the fact that he could never retort or retaliate unless he wanted to risk punishment. Both of the mages had never wasted an opportunity to remind Fenris just how little he was worth. That he was just a possession, a thing. A tool to be used—and abused and eventually discarded—however they saw fit.

Now Danarius was dead, Hadriana had been banished in disgrace and Fenris hardly knew what to do with himself because of it. Let alone how he should feel about it. He wasn't alone in that confusion, either.

The average mood throughout the estate at the moment was one of fearful uncertainty. Danarius' death and their change of ownership had happened so sudden and unexpectedly—not to mention violently. The small army of slaves, servants and household guards on staff really had no idea what to expect from the future or their new masters, these . . . Hawkes.

Rumor pegged the three siblings as the children of a Ferelden apostate and a Marcher woman, both dead now. By all accounts the Hawkes had grown up on the streets, only a few steps in front of slavery or servitude themselves. Their own uneasiness and lack of knowledge as to what to do with their new-found fortune and status was apparent even to the lowest slave. But after the story about what little had been left of Danarius in the training atrium had spread like wildfire, no one dared risk the elder Hawke's potential wrath by voicing that observation out loud.

There was tentative hope, however, that their new masters might be at least a little less brutal than Danarius and Hadriana had been. Fenris himself would be withholding judgment on that particular wonder. Not that he held any lingering love for Danarius or preferred his ownership in the slightest. But he'd not be so quick to blithely bare his throat to the next predator waiting to tear it out.

The elf had remained in the commons area overnight, dozing here or there but never falling asleep completely nor dropping his guard. As Fenris hadn't been told exactly where to go or what to do, he wasn't about to risk displeasure and possible punishment by making the wrong move on his own. So he waited. Compared to the torture he'd endured in the past, the throbbing ache in his bare feet and cramped leg muscles as well as the hungry growl in his stomach were nothing, and easily ignored. Instead he remained perched beside one of the marble columns, leaning back against it on his shoulders and watching all the various foot traffic that passed through all morning long. Silent and unmoving.

Until, at last, his new Master finally emerged from wherever it was in the house that the man had spent the night past.

Master Hawke was surprisingly tall and well-built for a mage. That errant thought had crossed his mind yesterday too just before the duel, and Fenris was again reminded of it as he laid eyes on the man this morning.The truth of it was there in the long line of his broad shoulders and the impressive width of a barrel-wide chest, his hips lean and narrow before branching out again into impressively thick thighs and long, powerful legs. The latter of which visible as the man wore a somewhat plain tunic and breeches—both yesterday and this morning—rather than the long-skirted robes Fenris was used to seeing on mages.The Master's hair was long and ink-black, currently tied into a loose tail that fell down his back, and his eyes were a striking, golden-amber brown. Sharp and piercing, they were not unlike those of the feathered raptor for which his family was named. Otherwise the human was fair-skinned and possessed of facial features that many would consider more than attractive. Especially coupled with the dark stubble that shadowed his broad jaw and chin, which lent him a rough and almost roguish sort of air.

Fenris took note of the fact that the myriad of grievous wounds which Danarius had dealt the man had long since been healed, apparently. There was no trace of them anymore, not even the faintest hint of a scar marred him. Yet there was still a touch of weary exhaustion apparently, visible in the dark circles under his eyes as well as the way his great shoulders rounded with lingering fatigue.

Some of that fatigue—and the perceived weakness that it implied—abruptly disappeared when the mage suddenly became aware of Fenris' silent presence. The Master hesitated for a moment before straightening to his full height and loping toward him. The human's expression became carefully guarded as he neared.

“Have you . . . been standing out here all night?” the Master addressed him, his voice deep and a little rough and not entirely unpleasant, Fenris was forced to admit to himself. The elf was careful to keep his own expression carefully blank, having straightened away from the pillar and standing now in a more attentive and respectful stance.

“Yes, Master,” he affirmed, his own tone neutral and almost flat, something he'd long since perfected in order to avoid giving offense—accidentally or otherwise. The human just blinked at him, completely at a loss.

“Really? Why?”

“Previously I remained with my—with Danarius,” he stumbled a little, though taking small but savage glee in being able to disavow the man as his owner even in simple conversation. “At all hours, even throughout the night. As such I have no quarters in the slave dormitories to return to. As the Master gave no indication of where I should go now, I waited.”

Even though Fenris was beginning to suspect that his new master was very different from the old one, he was still a little surprised at the grimace that suddenly pulled at the human's mouth at his confession. “Shit,” the man hissed, as if pained, and then, “sorry.”

Now Fenris felt his eyebrows arch up in complete bewilderment, unable to school the reaction or the expression of confused shock he was certain flickered to life across his face. His recollection of his own past was admittedly murky at best, but the slave was fairly positive that no one had _ever_ apologized to him before. For _anything._ And definitely not his owner, of all people.Completely baffled and out of sorts, Fenris just watched as his master floundered for a moment before heaving a rueful sigh, then pinned him to the spot with that strangely powerful stare of his.

“So just what did your day-to-day duties for Danarius entail, exactly?”

That question was easy enough to answer, so Fenris did so readily. “I mostly served as a personal bodyguard, protecting the magister from any possible threats to his person or well-being. As such I've been trained extensively in swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat. When desired, he also ordered me to kill those he deemed needful. And _these,”_ he suddenly murmured ruefully, lips twisting into a faint grimace as he raised his arms a little and stared down at the silvery-white lines that twisted their length, “went a long way in aiding both endeavors.”

When Fenris lifted his gaze he found Master Hawke now staring avidly at the lyrium markings. His amber gaze was sharpened to a razor focus, lit with an intensity that suddenly made him want to squirm in place though he didn't quite give into the impulse. There was also no mistaking the fierce curiosity in the man's expression, of a sort that Fenris had long-since grown to associate with all mages. They were always hungry for more knowledge, more power. Always more, more, _more_. Until they were willing to break the very laws of nature and toss aside all semblance of decency in order to obtain the lion's share of them. The sight of that same analytical look on his new master caused a sickening lurch in his gut and went a long way toward reminding the elf that no matter how different his new master's curious mannerisms might be from the old, there were some that would always be all too hatefully similar.

“I've never heard of such a thing as this,” the human mused softly, almost to himself. His stare slowly skated downward from Fenris' bare shoulder to the tips of his fingers. “The process of creating them must have been—,” the human grimaced a little, then, “intense.” Fenris almost snorted but smothered the impulse. _That_ was an understatement if one was ever uttered. “How in the Maker's name did you even survive it?”

“I am told that I very nearly did not,” he revealed, somewhat stiffly. The Master blinked again, confused.

“Told?” he parroted.

“The pain of receiving the markings was such that most of my memories of a time before them was lost.”

Now it was the human's turn to gape in shock. “Andraste's ass,” he swore, scowling. “I knew Danarius was a sick bastard, but . . . .” he trailed off, leaving the obvious unsaid.

Hawke's gaze drifted back down to stare at the lyrium in his arms once again. There was the barest breath of uncertain hesitation before he very slowly lifted a hand and reached for him. The motion was careful and controlled, as if in an attempt not to spook him. Fenris stiffened a little but fought the immediate impulse to jerk out of reach. After all, if his master wanted to touch him it wasn't within his power to refuse it. His jaw still clenched in anticipation of the contact however, knowing from past experience that it would not be pleasant. Not for _him_ at least. After a long moment of tense waiting, the human's hand finally neared enough to actually come in contact with his skin.

Master Hawke very gently pressed a thumb into a lyrium line and then slowly slid downward, feather light. He traced the path as far as he could, until the marking disappeared between his forefinger and thumb from where it then curled across his palm.

Fenris was not at all prepared for what that glancing caress did to him.

His skin crawled when Danarius touched him in the past, as if his very flesh protested the magister's handling right along with his head, heart and soul. Master Hawke's touch did _not_ make his skin crawl, however. Oh, there was certainly _something_ to the tingling flare of burning electricity that seemed to arc and race through his blood, skimming just beneath the surface of his skin. _Something_ behind the sensation that suddenly kicked his breath back into his throat where it then held, shuddering and uncertain. Something to the tiny and almost imperceptible shudder that trembled through his entire frame.

No, Fenris did feel _something_ but it wasn't disgust.

The Master's gaze had been fixed on the point where his thumb still pressed to his skin. When he pulled his hand away—slowly, as if reluctant—his eyes lifted and locked with Fenris' own. There was a languid heat in their depths now, one that Fenris recognized all too well and one that should have disgusted or even alarmed him far more than it actually did.

“So you were his bodyguard and sometimes his assassin,” the human murmured, in a voice gone soft and rough. Fenris had to actually fight the impulse to shiver again at the sound of it. Those golden eyes dropped a little away from his own stare, centering somewhere near his mouth instead. “There's nothing else he had of you?”

The pointed stare and the undeniable huskiness in his voice made the intent of Hawke's question clear, even if his words were not . . . . He wanted to know if Danarius had fucked him, Fenris realized with a sickening wrench in his chest.

A phantom memory suddenly flashed in his mind's eye then, unbidden and wholly unwanted. Of being pinned to the floor, his face and shoulders cruelly shoved downward while his hips were yanked up and back. Over and over. Flashes of the tearing pain that he'd felt, the hot humiliation and the empty echo of helplessness while Danarius huffed and grunted above him. The awful shame that clawed his belly while the older man spent himself inside him with a crooning whisper of, _“my sweet little wolf.”_

And then the memory was gone again, shunted violently away and buried.

Any trace of pleasure or complacency that Fenris had been feeling previously immediately disappeared like a puff smoke on the breeze. All of his defenses slammed back down instead, leaving the slave feeling cold and hollow in their wake.

Fenris struggled now to regain his composure and his usual dispassionate mask, doing his best to ignore Hawke's dawning look of resigned pity as well as any implications that might be behind it. Even though his new master had apparently guessed the answer to his question, Fenris still opened his mouth to verbally respond. Yet for some reason the words just wouldn't come out, no matter how he struggled. And as the silence stretched on uncomfortably, Fenris felt his face start to burn with frustrated embarrassment.

Hawke abruptly stepped backward out of Fenris' space, and seemed to shake himself a little before clearing his throat.

“I don't have any need of a bodyguard,” he pronounced briskly, apparently determined to pretend as though the last few moments hadn't happened. Fenris certainly didn't mind the abrupt change in subject. The larger human crossed his arms, adopting an almost business-like demeanor now. And when his tone suddenly took on an undeniable lilt of authority, Fenris found himself immediately responding to it—straightening his posture and apparently ready for whatever orders were forthcoming. And in that moment he hated himself just a little bit, for the instinctual reaction to obey without question that had become ingrained in him.

“I intend to study your markings more thoroughly,” the mage suddenly pronounced, “and in far greater detail. But for now you're to return to the dormitories until I send for you. Tell whomever oversees such things that you're to be given quarters. And for the Maker's sake, Fenris, get yourself something to eat,” he added that at the last, almost as an afterthought.

Eager to escape the mage and all the confusing, unwanted emotions currently roiling in his gut, Fenris didn't hesitate. He bent at the waist with a softly murmured, “yes, Master,” before pivoting sharply on his heel and quickly walking away. Hawke let him leave without a word, though he could somehow feel the human's gaze follow him until he was no longer in sight.

Fenris' first stop was the kitchens. After informing the cook that he'd been sent to feed himself by Master Hawke, he was given a chunk of still-warm bread and a bowl of porridge. Then the portly man promptly returned to ignoring his presence entirely while he went about his chores. Fenris stood off to the side in the sun-dappled room, out of the way of the cook and his small herd of scullery staff, eating all of the food quickly and efficiently without ever tasting much of it.

Then it was off to the slave's dormitory, a series of secluded wings and hallways largely hidden from view. An area easily barricaded away from the rest of the estate and guarded, should there ever be a need. Fenris knew where they were located, even if he had no memory of ever actually having slept in them before. The Steward—a rat-faced woman named Eleni who'd often delighted in doling out punishments in Danarius' name—fixed him with a hateful sneer after he arrived and then declared his reason for being there.

“Not the Master's pet no more, eh?” she cackled. “'Bout time you got put back down here where you belong, slave. Not up there warmin' the Master's sheets and thinkin' that yer any better than the rest of the chattel.”

Fenris was well-used to being treated with fear and mistrust by the other servants and slaves, if not outright jealous animosity, for the imagined favoritism they thought he garnered by being Danarius' obsession. Not to mention the fact that the lyrium tattoos and the strange abilities they gave him made him a dangerous and unpredictable predator in their midst.

Therefore he didn't rise to Eleni's bait, merely stood silently and simply stared at her flatly until the woman muttered a few more choice obscenities beneath her breath and began leading him away. She eventually flung open a plain wooden door, revealing a small six by six foot square space of plain gray stone. It housed a simple wooden-frame bed just wide and long enough for one full-grown person and a small clothes chest sitting at the foot of it. And that was it.

“Home sweet home, slave,” she barked. Fenris got the impression that she would have grabbed anyone else by the scruff and given them a cruel shove inside, but caught herself from the maneuver at the last moment.

No one touched him except the Master, none ever dared.

Fenris ignored her, stepping forward and didn't even flinch when she immediately slammed the door shut behind him. He merely continued farther into the room and then settled himself down onto the small bed without preamble. The sheets were rough but clean, the small pillow lumpy and the straw-filled mattress just this side of firm and unyielding. Fenris gave no thought or care to it. He had slept in far worse places, after all.

The elven slave lay down on his side and closed his eyes, emptying his mind of all the chaos, pain and uncertainty that lived there through practice and sheer force of will. Moments later and he'd slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think most of the native Tevinters in this fic are actually supposed to live in Qarinus, not Minrathous . . . but it's AU anyway. So who cares. LOL Also, this chapter apparently has ALL the dialogue, to make up for the lack in previous ones. Enjoy!

The Hawke siblings sat in the 'formal dining hall' that night, eating dinner. It felt a little strange to only have three people seated at the massive and ostentatious stone table that could potentially accommodate up to twenty-four, but it was where the staff had set up the meal and it would be far too much trouble to try and relocate after the fact.

Garrett sat at the head of the table in a massive throne-like chair that was clearly trying to compensate for a great many things, while the twins took up the seats directly in front of him on either side. The three of them were largely silent as they ate, each lost into their own thoughts and worries. Not to mention their collective unease at the handful of slaves who stood silently and motionless around the edge of the room, apparently just waiting until one of them might have a request that needed filling.

“Well this is bloody weird,” Carver muttered after a while.

“Carver,” Bethany groaned, but he was unrepentant.

“I'm not saying I regret that the bastard's dead. It's just _weird_ to be sitting here in this damned _mausoleum_ eating a dead man's food, is all.” The warrior sat back a little from the table, expression mulish. He shot a somewhat defiant glare in Garrett's direction. “I mean, really. Since when are _we_ nobility?”

“We're not,” the eldest murmured dryly. “Bethany and I are still Laetan, you're still Soporati. We just happen to own a veritable fortune in coin and property, now.”

 _“_ _You_ own, you mean,” the youngest was quick to clarify, ever petulant. Garrett was well beyond rising to such comments, though Carver's twin shot him an exasperated glare for it.

“You'd rather we go back to the way things were, Carver?” she demanded. “You'd prefer it if we were still forced to take any job thrown our way just so we have enough coin to buy _food_ to eat? Fighting for rooms at the Volturnus night after night so we don't have to sleep outside on the street?”

“Of course not,” he protested gruffly. “It's just that . . . well, what in the Void are we supposed to do with all this, anyhow?”

“Well first of all,” a familiar voice called loudly from down the hall, still out of sight but closing fast from the sound of it, “you give me those drinks you owe me and profusely thank your favorite dwarf for continuing to be so very helpful and accommodating.”

Recognizing the owner, Garrett wasn't surprised to see Varric lope into view a moment later. He _was_ surprised to discover that the dwarf wasn't alone. Following closely behind him was a tall figure dressed in costly blue silk trimmed in silver fur. She was slender but sturdy in build, pale-skinned with flaxen blonde hair perfectly coiffed and cut to frame her jaw. A pair of silverite and sapphire earrings the exact shade of her eyes—which probably cost more gold than Hawke had previously seen in his life—were in her ears, matching rings of the same on more than one fine-boned finger. As the woman glided in the room behind the dwarf she graced them all with a sinuous smile full of cunning and no small amount of amusement.

“The very _next_ thing you should do,” she continued after Varric, “is hire an interior decorator to re-do this entire estate from top to bottom.” She sniffed a little in pure distaste, lip curling a little as she glanced about. “Danarius' tastes were absolutely atrocious, it seems. As offensive as the man was himself. Is that _really_ a gurn's head mounted on that wall? Ugh. If I were you I'd take everything outside and burn it in effigy. It'll be cathartic, you'll see.”

Garrett had stood at her entrance, and found a surprised chuckle shaking loose at the woman's words despite himself. Whoever she was, he found that he immediately liked her. Anyone who so obviously despised Danarius as much as she seemed to was already well on their way to becoming a trusted friend.

“Hawke, meet Magister Maevaris Tilani,” Varric was saying as he claimed a chair beside a bemused Bethany and immediately reached for the bottle nearby. He gave an experimental sniff at its contents and grimaced a little in disappointment, but still poured himself a hefty glass nonetheless. “She was married to my cousin Thorold,” he continued after taking a healthy gulp, “before he was killed, the poor bastard. We still consider her family though. Mae, this is Hawke,” he pointed to Garrett, then, “and his siblings, Bethany and Carver.”

Garrett took the magister's proffered hand and bowed over it a little in deference, to which she grinned.

“It is a treat to finally meet you at last, Serah Hawke. My-my, Varric,” she continued to purr after Hawke had released his grip, pressing the hand to her chest instead over the heart-shaped neck of her robes. “You never mentioned just how deliciously handsome he was.”

Varric scoffed. “Well I'm not exactly the authority on a man's level of 'deliciousness,' Mae. You'll forgive me for omitting that detail from my otherwise spot-on description.”

“Very well,” she sighed as if set upon, “if I must.” Maevaris then turned a little, seeming to notice the servants still standing about. She glanced at Hawke, a silent question in her eyes and he nodded to whatever it was she wanted to say or do. It was to turn back to the small gaggle with an air of undisputed authority.

“Clear the table, if you please, and then leave us.”

“But not before somebody brings me a bottle of the good stuff, not this red wine bullshit,” Varric insisted.

Hawke motioned for Carver to move down a seat while the slaves launched into a flurry of activity. The younger man did so with minimal fuss for once, allowing Maevaris to gracefully take his place. In no time the table was cleared of all dishes and a crystal decanter of amber liquid joined the bottle of wine. Maevaris sighed as she accepted a glass of the latter, taking a small sip before turning to meet his stare directly.

“I can't tell you how pleased I am that you were victorious in your endeavor, Ser Hawke,” she began, tone ringing with truth despite her deceptively airy demeanor. “No matter what the future holds, for any of us, it can only be an improvement that Danarius is no longer fouling up the air.”

“I'll drink to that,” Garrett murmured honestly, and did so, to which she grinned.

“Varric has told me a bit of your life thus far. He is _quite_ the story-teller, I think you'll agree.” The dwarf lifted his glass of whiskey in silent acknowledgment of the compliment. “While you no doubt deserve this boon that's been bestowed you, I understand that you might need some . . . guidance in the aftermath of it. To help you navigate the admittedly treacherous landscape of Minrathous' social circles.” She spread her hands in front of her. “I am here to lend you whatever assistance and advice you may require on that front, and more.”

“That's very kind of you,” Bethany suddenly murmured, expression a mixture of surprise and delighted relief.

“And I thank you for it, Magister Tilani,” he continued, nodding. “We're definitely in need of all the help we can get.”

“Please, call me Maevaris,” she insisted, “or Mae, as Varric always insists on doing.”

He nodded to that, then frowned. “While your assistance is certainly appreciated, I can't help but ask . . . why would you bother? As a favor to Varric?”

“Partly,” she agreed, sitting back a little with a delicate sigh. “Also because I had no small part in orchestrating this whole affair and I'd like to see it to its triumphant conclusion.” At their confused looks she laughed. “Wherever did you think Varric was getting his 'insider information?'” Maevaris clarified, eyes dancing. Her expression sobered into one of intense dislike as she continued with, “Danarius had become a dangerous and detestable threat that was long overdue for violent removal, so I assure you that it was my greatest pleasure to assist in any way that I could. His kind are like a disease infesting this country,” she pronounced, tone trembling a little with a surprising amount of conviction. “We will never be able to move forward or grow as a nation until they're all plucked out of power like the infuriating weeds that they are.” Maevaris took a brief moment to compose herself after that somewhat impassioned declaration, taking another sip of wine. When she continued, her tone had returned to it's normal, relaxed cadence.

“It was I who insured that Alexius was the one on hand to witness the duel, you see,” she revealed. “Danarius knew about my own personal feelings of disgust and hatred where he was concerned, but Gereon was largely private with his own similar opinion. So Danarius thought nothing of accepting Alexius' offer to assist. Thus safeguarding your moment of having a fair chance at victory.”

Garrett snorted at that. “Fair chance?” he parroted blandly. “This Alexius didn't lift a finger in protest when Danarius roused a pack of Shades to fight for him. Last I checked, blood magic and summoning demons was still considered taboo and against the law. _Officially,_ at least.” Maevaris brushed that aside with a dismissive wave of her hand, however.

“At that point in the battle it wasn't certain just who would emerge the winner, as I understand it. Gereon couldn't very well risk revealing his true allegiances, not while there was a chance that Danarius might live.”

“No, of course not,” Garrett heaved. “Maker forbid.”

Maevaris wasn't fazed by his distaste, merely shrugging apologetically with a sigh. “Such is the way of things in politics, my dear. Often distasteful and unpleasant, but an inescapable fact of your new reality.”

Garrett conceded the point at that, though grudgingly.

Carver had been staring rather pointedly at Maevaris throughout this entire exchange, and it was here that he suddenly gasped rather loudly, eyes rounding. “Wait a minute, you're not . . . holy shit, are you a man?”

Garrett stared at his younger brother, for a moment simply unable to believe that he could be _that_ rude and stupid. Bethany gaped similarly, while Varric let out a loud groan and smacked his face into his hand.

“Smooth, Junior,” he muttered. _“Real_ smooth.”

Luckily Maevaris didn't seem to take offense at Carver's blunt tactlessness, as she had every right. Instead she leaned toward him and grinned at the younger man, expression full of sultry amusement. “I assure you, Carver, that I am a female in every aspect except the actual equipment.” One finely manicured nail gently traced the line of his jaw, and she seemed to take great delight at his answering gulp of apprehension. “Should you require more thorough convincing, however, I would be more than happy to help you see things my way. Who knows, you might enjoy it. Far more than you might think.”

Carver flushed a deep red at that. Before he had a chance to open his mouth and respond and possibly make the situation any worse, there was a thump from under the table and he jerked with a pained grunt. Then he turned to scowl at his twin sister, who was attempting to set him on fire with the power of her glare alone it seemed.

“Please forgive my brother's thoughtless insult, Maevaris,” Garrett finally ground out, but the woman just waved him down as she straightened again in her chair.

“Already forgotten, don't fret about it in the slightest. But now I think it's time we get down to business.” At his nod of agreement, she continued. “One of the first things you should do is clear out the bulk of your current staff. Dismiss any of the non-essential servants and sell the slaves. Then rehire and purchase your own people. This will reduce the risk of having anyone in your midst who might still be loyal to their former masters and easily tempted to act the part of spy or assassin. That's not to say you should drop your guard against those possibilities even after the fact. Hadriana has retreated somewhere to lick her wounds but she won't remain in exile for long. That little viper will be plotting her revenge, make no mistake. Not to mention any number of Danarius' other loyal allies who will be eager for any opportunity to seize this power for their own.”

“Lovely,” Garrett growled, rubbing a little at his temple as his head began to throb with an impending headache. Maevaris gave him a moue of sympathy.

“I imagine politics are not quite so vicious or sinister in Ferelden.” That made him sigh rather loudly, annoyed that this kept coming up.

“Dammit, why does everyone keep assuming that I'm Ferelden?” he demanded rhetorically, exasperated. “Yes, my _father_ was born in Ferelden. My mother was born and raised in the Free Marches, Kirkwall to be exact. But Bethany, Carver and I were all born right here in Minrathous. We're as Tevinter as any of the rest of you.”

Maevaris immediately lifted her hands in a placating gesture. “Apologies for my misconception, Hawke.” He merely shook his head, willing to let the matter pass without further fuss. The magister briskly forged ahead.

“Now then, to the next order of business. Danarius' bodyguard, the slave with the lyrium tattoos? It would probably be best if you sold him,” she pronounced and Garrett stiffened in his seat. “He's a dangerous liability in the best of scenarios. Luckily I have it on authority that the Archon himself is interested in acquiring the elf. Doing so would no doubt earn a great deal of favor with the man. And it is _never_ a bad thing to have favor with the Archon.”

“No,” Garrett immediately declared, however, earning him a startled blink from Maevaris and confused looks from the others at his vehemence.

“No?” she repeated and he scowled.

“No, I'm not selling Fenris,” he insisted flatly, tone indicating that the matter was closed for discussion.

Though obviously puzzled, Maevaris took the hint and dropped the matter with, “very well, if you're quite certain.”

“I am,” he reiterated, then continued quickly, eager to change the subject, “I'm also certain that I'd like Carver at the head of the household guard.” Maevaris nodded agreement. Garrett glanced at his brother, who looked a little surprised but not unwilling. “Does that work for you?” he questioned.

“Sure,” the warrior nodded, looking more and more pleased the more he considered it.

“As for Bethany,” the eldest Hawke began, turning his gaze on her next. “I'd like to see her enrolled into one of the Circles for more formal training. Perhaps Vyrantium or Carastes.” His sister looked far less pleased at his plans for her, brow furrowed in worry. Before she had a chance to voice any protestations however, Maevaris beat her to it.

“That might not be the best course of action.” Garrett turned back to her, eyebrow lifted in confusion.

“Why not?”

“Well for one thing, if Alexius is to be believed, sending your sister to a Circle for study would be completely moot. She already has all the training she needs, as do you. There's little they could offer her there other than polishing out the rough edges of her technique, which can just as easily be seen to here at home.” Bethany practically slumped in relief at this, so Garrett didn't press the issue. “Besides, your sister has a greater opportunity to assist you in far more impactful ways.”

At their puzzled expressions Maevaris frowned. “Your greatest challenge right now is the still tenuous position you hold in the city's hierarchy. You have the coin and the base of power to thrive, but you lack the necessary allies to help deter any threats to the stability of your claim.” She shot him a crooked smirk. “There are no better ways to go about securing those than through the binding oaths of marriage. You'll likely never rise above the _formal_ status of Laetan. Your _social_ status is a much more fluid thing, however, and far more easily influenced. Thanks to your rather spectacular defeat of Danarius, 'Hawke' is a name on many lips these days. The story is making the rounds with just the right amount of dazzled fervor, so now is the perfect opportunity to take advantage of your fame. I've already made a few inquiries and unsurprisingly there is more than one House interested in allying with such a powerful mage bloodline.”

His eyebrows had lifted in shock long before she was done. “You want me to get married?” he questioned, dubious. Maevaris shook her head.

“Ah, no. Marrying their daughters to you would be a step _down_ in status for most families—at least any of the ones worth having on your side. But you could marry your _sister_ to an Altus,” she revealed at last. “An Altus who would one day inherit his father's seat and become a Magister in his own right. And through that bond you yourself would gain rank and importance—and the much needed security that goes along with it.”

Varric just grinned at the Hawke siblings' collective shock. “Mae's scary-good at this shit,” he needlessly pointed out, to which she gave a tiny bow.

“Bullshit,” Carver suddenly burst out, though, scowling. “No,” he protested when his sister shot him another glare. “There's no way in hell we're going to _sell_ our sister like a damned brood mare.” He turned his narrowed blue eyes on Garrett next. “Tell me you're not actually considering this.”

“I'm inclined to agree with Carver,” he murmured, to the younger man's visible relief. “I'm not going to trade my sister's future happiness on the off-chance that I might gain a few political advantages.”

Maevaris frowned, but surprisingly it was Bethany who spoke next.

“Are you two quite finished deciding my life _for_ me?” she demanded, her normally gentle voice uncommonly sharp with anger. Garrett blinked, surprised.

“Bethy,” her twin began but she cut him off.

“Shut it, Carver,” she snapped. “I can very well make my own decisions about what to do with _my_ body and _my_ future, thank you very much.” She turned her dark eyes on her elder brother then, expression wry. “Do you honestly think that you can risk your life in a _duel to the death_ for the sake of our family, Big Brother, and that I wouldn't be willing to risk just as much for the same? You nearly _died_ Garrett,” she stressed, voice shaking a little with emotion. “At the very least I think I can put on a smile, marry a man and have his babies.”

Maevaris clapped her hands, clearly thrilled with Bethany's agreement.

“Excellent! I shall make all the arrangements,” she assured. “There will have to be a grand gala, of course, to formally debut Bethany to Minrathous society. As well as introduce you to all the potential candidates. I _insist_ on hosting the event at my estate, don't even try to disagree. It's already decided. We'll need to hire some tutors, Bethany my dear, to polish your etiquette and start teaching you all the various family lineages worth knowing. I'll help too, of course, I wouldn't dream of doing anything less.”

Garrett just stared at his younger sister, completely out of sorts. He didn't much care for the idea of an arranged marriage but it seemed Bethany had made up her mind. She _would_ choose this moment to suddenly develop her own brand of the legendary Hawke Stubbornness. Carver was even less pleased by the apparent outcome than he was. They were summarily ignored, however, as the females continued discussing details of this upcoming party and all the preparations that they would need to make for it.

Hawke just left them to it, accepting a glass of whiskey from a softly chuckling Varric and taking a long pull, grimacing at the fire that burned down his throat afterward. He was a smart man, after all. He knew when to admit defeat and bow out gracefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had far too much fun writing Maevaris' dialogue in this. Hopefully it was accurate and in-character, as I've never actually seen or read any canon content with her other than the war table missions in Inquisition. 
> 
> Also, I swear I don't hate Carver. It's just way too fun to tease him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another shout-out thank you to everyone who's left kudos or comments. You guys are awesome. This chapter took a little longer than expected to get out, but hopefully the wait is worth it.

The marketplace square was almost like its own living, breathing entity; practically thrumming with life in the late morning hour. Countless merchants stood at their booths or shop-fronts, barking out their wares and prices to try and entice any of the passing public to buy. Laughter, shouts and hundreds of voices in conversation moved through the surrounding area like the ebb and flow of an unstoppable tide.

The variety of goods one could obtain in the market of Minrathous was nearly endless, especially if one knew all the right places to look. Though for Hawke, his needs weren't all that exotic or hard to find. He and Carver were here to see about replacing the bulk of the servants and slaves that they'd just finished dismissing, as Maevaris had suggested earlier. Varric was along for the trip both for his own entertainment and to “keep you two saps from getting robbed blind,” in his own words.

Carver was dressed in his usual tunic and a sleeveless leather jerkin on over it, belted loose at his waist, and a pair of leather breeches tucked into knee-high boots. Varric as well sported his regular attire, a fine velvet tunic opened to the waist to show off his impressive chest hair, a wide leather belt and buckskin trousers. However Garrett was not in his normal, more casual attire. He'd dressed instead in a new set of deep blue robes, of finer make than he'd ever worn or even seen in his life before. Done in an attempt to openly project his mage status and now impressive wealth, in the hopes of smoothing this whole process along as fast as possible. The less skeptical frowns he got from potential merchants the better.

Varric was leading the way forward for now, occasionally calling out or waving to someone he knew. Hawke and Carver followed along side-by-side, the latter with crossed arms and a disapproving frown on his face.

“You should have sold the elf, brother,” he insisted, continuing the topic he'd been harping on all morning long. “He's dangerous! Too dangerous to let him just wander about with those damned tattoos of his, giving him only Maker-knows-what abilities.”

“I fully intend to study those tattoos in more detail, Carver, just as soon as I have the time,” Hawke clarified, even though he knew that wasn't really his brother's biggest concern. “I'll know just what he's capable of, then.”

“I already know what he's capable of,” his little brother snapped back. “Reaching into your damned chest with his bare hand and ripping your heart out for that bitch Hadriana when you least expect it!”

“I know it's hard for you to truly appreciate this,” Hawke uttered wryly, “but no one else has ever successfully branded lyrium onto a living subject before. The practical edge he could give to my own research into the subject is _invaluable_. Not to mention the fact that he's a priceless resource all on his own. A mobile, never-depleting repository of lyrium? No, I'm not getting rid of him just because you think he _might_ prove to be a little dangerous.”

Carver grumbled out a few choice phrases under his breath at that, but Hawke chose to magnanimously ignore them. It didn't matter what his brother—or even his somewhat nervously worrying sister—said after all, he wasn't selling Fenris to anyone. Not for any price. It's just that the exact reason for his conviction on the matter was a touch more . . . _complicated_ than he'd revealed aloud.

Despite what he'd told Carver, it hadn't exactly been thoughts of 'invaluable research' or 'unlimited mana reserves' that filled his head while he'd stared his fill at the achingly beautiful slave days before. Fenris might have been made into a warrior, he might indeed be a stone-cold killer, but he _looked_ like a fucking wet-dream come to life. All sleek muscle and slender limbs encased in golden skin striped with exotic silvery-white lyrium. Huge moss-green eyes staring out from beneath the tendrils of his white-blond hair with just the tiniest hint of vulnerability in their depths that put dangerous, sinful things to any mind. More than that, the stubborn lift of the slave's chin and the quiet defiance hidden in his posture had stirred an answering heat in Hawke's groin that really had no decent business being there. But, Maker save him, it _was_ there. Was it ever.

In looking at the pretty slave Hawke had known with dreaded certainty that there wasn't a chance in the Void that Danarius hadn't put him in his bed at least once. The bastard would haveto be mad or a eunuch not to. The shamed color that had flushed to the tips of Fenris' pointed ears had said as much, even though the slave couldn't seem to bring himself to voice the answer out loud. It sickened Hawke more than a little, to realize just how much he wanted to do the same to the elf. And not just because he was loathe to mirror _anything_ that that bastard Danarius had done in life, either. Hawke had no desire to force himself or his attentions on his lovers.Legal or not in the eyes of the law, a slave had no right to say no. So how could it ever be anything but coercion at best, rape at worst?

Hawke sighed now, doing his best to put Fenris and all the various problems that came along with him from his mind, instead focusing on the task at hand. He, Carver and Varric approached several different labor merchants in the hour that followed and—with Varric's business savvy—managed to purchase a number of promising slaves to replace the ones they'd lost. Arrangements were made to have them all delivered back to the estate later that day.

Hawke stood off to the side while Varric haggled out some finer details with a particularly shrewd Antivan, listening to the proceedings with only half an ear as he fully trusted the dwarf to handle it. The mage was startled a bit out of his own inner musings, however, when a grubby hand suddenly thrust up into his field of vision.

“Enchantment?”

He reared away a little from the fist, blinking in surprise to find a young dwarf standing before him. His pale hair was cropped short, a pair of equally pale blue eyes staring up at him eagerly, a happy smile on his face. Hawke's eyebrow lifted in confusion even as the boy proffered his fist again. “Enchantment!”

“Erm . . . yes?” Hawke ventured, confused. After it became apparent that the boy was trying to give him something he held out his own hand. The dwarf immediately grinned and then dropped a tiny stone into his waiting palm. Hawke was surprised to discover that it had an actual rune enchanted into it, and a damned intricate one too. He peered at it, wondering just what the rune would do. He'd never seen anything like it before.

He turned back to the boy, but before he could ask who he was or what this was about, another dwarf—this one much older—came huffing up to them. Apparently he was the boy's father, if his half-fearful, half-scolding tone was to be interpreted as he called out, “Sandal! How many times must I tell you not to wander off! It's dangerous!” The older one turned to him then, braided beard near-quivering with nervous energy. “I'm terribly sorry you were disturbed, messere. Terribly sorry. If there's anything I can do to make up for it, you just say the word. Sandal, apologize to the nice magister for bothering him!”

Hawke finally lifted a hand to quiet the poor fellow, chuckling. “Easy there, friend. There was no harm done, I assure you. And I'm not a magister,” he corrected, as an aside, “merely Laetan. Your boy just wanted to give me this, it seems.” Hawke held up the stone and the other dwarf suddenly beamed, looking as though he might burst from pride.

“Ah yes, my boy Sandal is quite the skilled enchanter! He's forever creating new runes and enchanting them onto whatever odds and ends he can find. Ah! But where are my manners? I am Bodahn Feddic, messere,” he introduced abruptly with a tiny bow, “purveyor of goods both common and rare.” Then he winced. “Or, well, I was. Before I—ah, it's no matter.”

Hawke was silent for a moment, taking in the subtle details about the pair of dwarves before him. Their clothes were of a decent merchant caste but currently well-worn, threadbare and dirty. Their faces were just a touch gaunt, a few bones protruding here or there where they shouldn't. He'd bet that it had been some time since the pair of them had had a decent meal or even a restful night's sleep. He knew all too well what that was like. Hawke would also bet that Bodahn had been on his way to sell himself into _servus publicus,_ a government-owned slave. A guaranteed way to provide for his son at the cost of his own freedom.

A solution suddenly came to mind and,deciding quickly, Hawke responded with, “a pleasure to meet you, Bodahn. And you, Sandal,” he added to the younger dwarf with a gentle smile. “Thank you for the gift. My name is Hawke, and I wonder if you both might consider doing me a favor.”

“Enchantment?” Sandal questioned, blinking curiously. Bodahn just patted him gently on the shoulder before nodding at Hawke.

“Certainly, Messere Hawke. You've only to name it.”

“I find myself in need of a new Steward,” he announced, which was the truth. It hadn't taken long at all for him to decide to fire that extremely unlikable, rat-faced woman who'd held the position previously. “I'm also quite fascinated by Sandal's enchanting abilities and I've always wanted to study rune-crafting in more detail. Perhaps you would consider taking the position of Steward in my household and allowing me the chance to work with your son?”

Bodahn's eyes had widened to the size of saucers long before Hawke was through speaking, stunned. Shock quickly melted into an almost painfully brilliant grin. “I would be _honored_ Messere! We both would, wouldn't we Sandal?”

“Enchantment!” the boy crowed, arms thrown wide, which seemed as good an agreement as any.

Hawke just nodded, then gave the duo directions on how to find the estate,telling them to seek out Bethany when they arrived.

“Thank you, Messere,” Bodahn murmured reverently before they left, “thank you so very much. You won't regret giving us this chance, Master Hawke. I swear it.”

“Did we just adopt another stray?” Varric teased, having finished his haggling and apparently witnessing most of the exchange. Though highly amused, the other dwarf seemed very pleased of the outcome as well and Hawke just laughed.

“So it would seem.”

“Brother, are you sure—,”

Hawke sighed loudly, interrupting Carver's attempt at worrying. “Carver, if those two dwarves turn out to be hidden spies or assassins for our enemies, I'll eat the soles of my boots.” Varric guffawed and his brother wisely dropped it, at that.

The trio continued onward, acquiring a few more purchases along the way. That is until the sound of a pained cry drew them up short.

Turning toward the sound, Hawke discovered a thin waif of an elf girl being dragged by a fist-full of her short dark hair, from a rough-looking mercenary type who could only be a slave-hunter. The dark leather collar around her slender neck—angry-red runes burnt into its length—pronounced the fact that the girl was a mage. It was a _Taamsala_ _-_ _Vaarad_ , a cruelly clever Qunari invention that nullified magic in their _Saarebas_. Tevinter slave-hunters had cheerfully re-purposed the pieces to help bring mage slave captives to heel as well. The girl's pallid face was also etched in spidery green markings of _vallaslin_ , which meant she was Dalish—or had been before being captured.

Not surprisingly the girl was utterly terrified, crying openly under the slaver's rough treatment. Though such abuses were an unfortunate way of life here, that didn't necessarily mean that it was easy to witness or accept. He saw Varric's hand suddenly drift to the stock of his crossbow, his expression dark with a look of anger that was no doubt mirrored on his own face. The elf suddenly stumbled, clumsy with fear,and the hunter rounded on her with a snarl. When a vicious back-hand sent the Dalish to the ground with a shrill yelp, Hawke decided that he'd had enough. It seemed he wasn't the only one.

Before Hawke had a chance to step forward or say anything, Carver was already on the man. He rushed forward and caught the mercenary's fist before it could strike the fallen girl a second time. He twisted the arm behind his back, effectively immobilizing the slaver before the man had a chance to do more than let out a shout of surprise. Scowling, Carver didn't stop there, yanking the trapped arm up and back in one strong wrench. The slave-hunter screamed as his shoulder was ripped right out of socket with a sickening crunch.

The little Dalish just sat where she'd fallen, staring up at Carver with huge tear-stained eyes as if she were seeing a ghost.

“Here now!” someone else suddenly yelled, and Hawke turned to see what must be the auctioneer responsible for this particular slave. He rushed forward, waving his arms. “What's all this about! Unhand my associate at once!”

“'Your associate' is a cowardly thug,” Hawke inserted flatly, “who apparently feels the need to beat a tiny elf girl senseless just to move her from one place to another. A little unnecessary, wouldn't you agree?”

While flushed with obvious displeasure, the auctioneer had taken note of Hawke's costly robes and seemed to swallow whatever his first impulse response had been. He cleared his throat instead, then ground out with some difficulty, “be that as it may, I don't see how that is any business of yours—,”

“No you wouldn't,” Varric cut in sourly, “because you're obviously a bit dumb and short-sighted. But allow me to help you out a little with those two very unfortunate birth defects. This is Lord Garrett Hawke, you might have heard his name once or twice this past week.” Whatever the now-bristling auctioneer was about to say abruptly choked off at the sound of 'Hawke,' his eyes widening in shock and not a small amount of fear instead. The man visibly paled with it.

“Oh, L-Lord Hawke. I . . . I had no idea—,”

“Yes, we've already established your stupidity,” Varric interrupted again and Hawke smothered a chuckle. Otherwise he remained silent, more than willing to allow the silver-tongued dwarf to dominate the proceedings instead. “Lord Hawke is very keen on acquiring this girl and now your 'associate' has marked up her face. Who knows what other injuries she's sustained, either. Do you always let your hunters manhandle the merchandise before selling? Not exactly the smartest business practice, you know. Customer confidence is key.”

“Um, I-I have other Dalish elves on offer, my lord. I would be _happy_ to show them to you right now, if you'd like.”

“Did I say he wanted _other_ Dalish elves?” The auctioneer blinked a little, then frantically shook his head and Varric scowled. “No, I didn't. I said he wanted _this_ one. So what do you think you should be doing about that, now that his preference has been damaged?”

The auctioneer gulped, but managed to babble, “please, Lord Hawke, I-I insist that you take the girl. Free of charge, please.”

Hawke managed to lift an imperious eyebrow at the man before he let out a bored sigh, playing along. “Very well, we'll consider the matter settled.”

“Thank-you, my Lord!” the auctioneer gushed, bowing several times before nearly tripping on his own heels in his hurry to back away.

With the transaction complete, Carver hesitated only briefly before he released the groaning hunter and then shoved the man away. The mercenary wisely scurried off without further incident. His brother turned to the little Dalish at his feet instead, expression uncertain but kind.

“You alright, then?”

The elf blinked, still trying to adjust to everything that had just happened it seemed. “I-I . . . yes,” she finally managed in a whisper-soft voice, lilting with a lyrical Ferelden accent. “A-at least I _think_ so. I don't think anything is broken.”

“What's your name, kid?” Varric questioned.

“Merrill.”

“Can you stand, Merrill?” Hawke asked then. She moved her legs a little, then immediately grimaced and hissed with pain.

“Oh,” she whimpered, distressed. “I think I must have sprained my ankle when I fell. I-I don't think I can put any weight on it,” she finished, throwing them an apologetic look. “I'm terribly sorry.”

Before Hawke could even think to step forward and perhaps see to her injuries with magic, Carver suddenly bent and scooped the girl up off the ground and into his arms. “There's no need to apologize for some _other_ asshole spraining your ankle,” the younger man muttered gruffly then.

Hawke huffed a little in surprise, a slight smile trying to form. Varric didn't even try to hide his own grin, eyes twinkling with a definite glint of mischief in their depths. Meanwhile Merrill stared up at Carver with wide eyes, expression caught somewhere between shock and the beginnings of what could only be described as adoration.

Carver just ignored all of them, as well as the ruddy color burning his cheeks and the back of his neck, carrying his little burden all the way back to the estate without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taamsala-Vaarad – (qunlat) amulet to hold back evil  
> vallaslin – (elven) blood writing


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some altered in-game party banter in this chapter, all credit to those owed it.

Fenris was surprised—and _not_ surprised—when he remained in the aftermath of the 'culling' in the household. It hadn't taken long for the Hawkes to replenish the ranks that they'd gutted, however. And in the days that followed life began to settle into a new sense of normalcy, for the most part. In that time everyone—servants new and old alike—began to feel out their new masters; learning their personalities, wants and individual eccentricities in order to better anticipate their needs.

The youngest, Carver Hawke, and the only non-mage amongst the three siblings. Despite his sometimes irritable and sulky nature, the man was an incredibly skilled warrior. He was more than competent at his craft, taking a firm and knowledgeable hand with the household soldiers. It wasn't long before sentries and guard rotations were performed with a honed precision that Danarius had never managed—nor truly bothered with if truth be told. The magister had always been more inclined to to depend on his own magic and Fenris' abilities alone. The youngest Hawke became well-liked by the soldiers, as he spent much of his time in the barracks more often than not. Drinking, playing cards and getting to know the men under his command without an ounce of artifice. As for the slaves, gossip in the dormitories said that the youngest Hawke could be a stern disciplinarian but not unnecessarily brutal. Always fair in his dealings, they said, so long as you did your work quickly and competently.

The middle child, Bethany Hawke, another mage. She was kindhearted and gentle with slave, soldier and servant alike. Because of this, she was very quickly the unequivocal favorite of their new masters. A far cry from that spoiled bitch Hadriana—who could barely dress herself without assistance—the female Hawke would rarely ask them to do anything that she could just as easily do herself. She also took the time to learn their names and used them, drawing them into conversation while they went about their duties, randomly asking after their families and their well-being as if it actually mattered to her. Skilled and powerful in magic—if not quite as strong as her elder brother—it was said that the girl was now being groomed by Magister Tilani. Rumor suggested she was soon to be married off to an Altus son in order to further solidify the Hawke's new position in Minrathous.

And finally, the eldest of the three—the Master. Garrett Hawke was still mostly an enigma to much of the household. Not callous or cruel exactly, but far less open than his younger siblings by far. Master Hawke kept to himself and rarely spoke to anyone beyond quiet, concise orders when absolutely needed. He spent almost all of his time alone in his study if not with his siblings or his dwarven companion. Absorbed in research, the gossips said, desperate and determined to hold on to the power and prestige he'd unexpectedly wrested out of Danarius' dead fingers. Fenris cynically wondered to himself just how long it would take before they began discovering the 'mysteriously dead and exsanguinated' bodies of slaves littering the halls.

But none of that told Fenris what his _own_ role was supposed to be in this new reality he found himself in. Nobody else seemed inclined to enlighten him on it, either. He didn't much care for the constant uncertainty. His new master didn't seem to trust him much, so the role of bodyguard was unlikely. And despite that one heated moment weeks ago, the human hadn't demanded Fenris warm his bed either. Also hadn't asked it of anyone else that he could tell, and Fenris wasn't entirely sure what that meant. Nor was he sure why he should care so much about it, either way.

Fenris was seated now in the commons area of the slave dormitories, left with nothing to do but glare at the wall and dwell on his confusing and uncertain situation.

“Hello there!”

Fenris started a little, jarred out of his brooding by the sound of a bright and overly chipper voice. Turning, he found that the voice belonged to one of the newer slaves. A young Dalish girl, who apparently didn't know enough to be mistrustful or afraid of him as the others were. This was made apparent when she blithely plopped down to sit beside him on the wide bench, without an ounce of hesitation. She wore the outfit that most of the house slaves now wore—nicer than the rags they'd been given under Danarius by far, though still of simple make; a plain white, loose-fitting linen tunic belted over a pair of matching linen drawstring breeches. Fenris was wearing the same. But the dark leather _Taamsala_ _-_ _Vaarad_ around her neck said she was a mage, which only further solidified Fenris' decidedly unflattering opinion of her. His dark and unfriendly scowl did nothing to dampen the brightness of her cheerful smile, though.

“My name's Merrill. What's yours?”

Despite his low growl of displeasure, the Dalish mage didn't seem inclined to go away. Just sat there blinking at him, waiting patiently for an answer. He sighed loudly then, hoping that if he humored her she would leave. “Fenris.”

She gasped at that, then laughed with delight. “Ooo, like the constellation _Fenrir?_ The White Wolf!” Again she ignored his growling, eying him up and down before nodding with approval. “It's very appropriate.”

When several moments passed and she continued to just sit there and stare at him, he finally whirled to face her with a glare. “What?! Why are you staring?”

“You have _vallaslin,”_ Merrill pointed out, motioning to his tattoos, either completely oblivious to his anger or uncaring of it. “The same markings the Dalish have.” Fenris had been aware that the patterns were based on something of ancient Elvhen culture, not that he cared. He turned away again, expression dour.

“Yours are not made out of lyrium,” he muttered darkly. Merrill shook her head.

“No, they're made out of blood. Our blood. That's what _vallaslin_ means; blood writing. It's a mark of adulthood.”

His lip curled. “Mine were carved into my flesh against my will, in a ritual I remember only for the agony it caused me.”

That made an impact at last. Her eyes widened, expression slack with shock. “Oh! I . . . I'm so sorry.”

Fenris just sneered. “I don't want your pity.”

Before Merrill could respond with what was sure to be a veritable _mountain_ of pity as if to spite him, she was interrupted by a new voice calling out, “Aha! There you are!”

Both elves turned to see the new Steward of the house, Bodahn, hurrying in their direction. It was not at all uncommon for dwarves to hold such positions in Tevinter households and he was a pleasant enough fellow, certainly better than his predecessor. Fenris liked him well enough. Thus far Bodahn had proven to be fair-minded and far more shrewd than his affable demeanor often suggested.

“Here now, Merrill,” he disapproved, fists settling onto his hips and giving her a somewhat exasperated look. “Aren't you supposed to be out in the gardens?” She blanched a little.

“Yes, and I promise I was _just_ on my way. But then I saw Fenris sitting over here looking so sad and lonely. I thought I'd try to cheer him up a little.”

The dwarf shook his head a little at that, then made a shooing motion with his hands. “Admirable as that may be, the flower beds aren't going to weed themselves. Poor Cicero must be out there all by himself. Go on, now.”

Merrill heaved a sigh that seemed to come from her bare toes, but got to her feet and wandered off as she'd been told nonetheless.

The dwarf turned to him then, only a little apprehensive as he announced, “I was actually looking for you, Fenris. The Master requires your presence in his study, right away.”

Fenris blinked, a little thrown off. After so long of nothing, all of a sudden he was being summoned? What for? The elf finally just got to his feet though, and began out of the dormitories without another word. Trying to ask would be moot, he'd find out the reason why his Master wanted him soon enough. One way or another.

Fenris moved through the halls swiftly, finding his way to the Master's study—whether it be Danarius' or Hawke's—through near muscle-memory. He took a heartbeat or two to steel himself for whatever was waiting for him before he lifted a hand and rapped twice on the door. Almost immediately he heard his Master's deep voice calling for him to enter, so Fenris lifted the latch and did so. He was a little surprised at the sight that greeted him.

Danarius had been almost obsessively neat and organized. All of his books were always put away in their proper places on the bookshelves or—at the very least—placed neatly in delineated stacks further separated by topic or author. His desk had always been just as immaculate and well-ordered, as the magister didn't abide any sort of clutter.

In comparison, the large room now looked as though a small bomb had gone off. Piles of books littered the space; some were opened to various passages as if still being read, others closed and stuffed haphazardly with pieces of parchment to mark the page. He almost couldn't see his new Master currently seated behind the massive desk, for the mountain of papers, scrolls and treatise that were littered all over it. It was like some last, final insult to the man who'd previously owned the space.

And Fenris almost— _almost—_ smiled at the thought.

 

* * *

 

Hawke stood when Fenris appeared in the doorway, doing his best to quell the strange flutter in the pit of his belly. No matter how good-looking the elf was, Hawke was the master and Fenris was the slave. There was utterly no reason for him to feel nervous, he reminded himself for what was probably the twentieth time that morning _._ Wary, perhaps, of the elf's possible capability of being dangerous. But not _nervous,_ Maker damn it all.

He cleared his throat a little and straightened to his full height. “Come inside,” he called briskly, “and close the door.” When Fenris did so he moved out from behind the desk and then motioned for the elf to come nearer. Which he did, until Fenris stood at the center of the room and only a few steps away. The slave stared at him silently, face neutral and large green eyes only betraying the tiniest hint of wariness.

“I've read everything I can find on your lyrium markings,” he began conversationally, clasping his hands behind his back for now. Something flickered across Fenris' eyes but it was quickly gone again, his expression otherwise unchanging. Hawke forged ahead. “Danarius was fairly meticulous in his notes.” _And creepily megalomaniacal,_ he added silently with an inward sneer. “You weren't the first to undergo the ritual,” Hawke revealed then, “just the first to actually survive it. I think Danarius saw you as his ultimate creation, the very physical embodiment of his supposed supremacy and superiority over other magisters.”

If Hawke had been expecting some sort of visible reaction to that announcement he was to be sorely disappointed. The elf just continued to stand silent and expressionless—like a living statue—staring at a point on the wall somewhere above his right shoulder.

Hawke frowned, slightly annoyed and not entirely sure as to the reason. “I've gotten as far as I can in my research through the notes alone. I need to examine the marks themselves in greater detail,” he pronounced, a warning of sorts. He thought the elf's jaw might have tightened, but Fenris remained otherwise impassive. Giving a mental shrug at that, Hawke determined to just get on with it and to that end he closed the last few steps between them.

The mage started simple, reaching out to touch one of the lines that curled against Fenris' bare bicep as he had before. Like the last time, Hawke's fingers immediately lit up with a faint tingle of raw energy—the lyrium in Fenris' skin apparently struggling to connect with his mana and vice-versa. He also took note of how badly Fenris stiffened up at the contact, though whether that was from pain, distaste or something else was impossible to tell from his studiously blank countenance.

“The notes say that these give you enhanced strength, speed and stamina,” he mused aloud, “as well as the ability to partially phase through solid objects. Are you able to control their activation?”

Hawke saw the elf swallow a little before he managed to work his jaw loose enough to answer. “Mostly.”

Hawke lifted an eyebrow, but his gaze was currently centered on where he now held Fenris' hand in his, palm-up. The white lyrium lines branched out from his wrist like webbing. Arching across his palm and then lining the length of each finger, top and bottom. “Mostly?” he encouraged after a heartbeat or two of silence.

In truth he already knew the answer to most of these questions, but he continued to ask them. Both as an attempt to distract them from the strange intimacy of the examination, as well as to try and force the stubborn elf to engage with him.

“There are times when they . . . flare up,” Fenris finally admitted at some length, “whether I want them to or not. Usually when I'm—upset.”

Hawke merely hm-med at that. He stalled for a moment or two, gathering his resolve, before releasing Fenris' hand and taking a step back. Lifting his gaze back to the elf's face as he ordered, “I'll need you to disrobe now,” and that _wasn't_ just because he wanted to see Fenris naked . . . not completely. “I need to see the markings in their entirety.”

Fenris was completely frozen for a telling moment before he abruptly reached for the thin belt that held his sleeveless tunic in place. The only indication of his discomfort was the jerky, almost mechanical way his fingers fumbled with the buckle. In no time at all the belt fell to the floor, only to be forgotten as his linen tunic was pulled up and over his head before being dropped carelessly in a heap as well. Hawke told himself he wasn't watching Fenris yank the ties of his drawstring breeches loose with baited breath, then promptly ignored that bold-faced lie for what it was. His pants slipped to the floor and Fenris stepped out of them with the effortless grace of a dancer, then went still again.

Hawke made a slow circle around the elf, and somehow managed to maintain a mostly clinical air while he eyed him up down. As he'd suspected from the written accounts, the lyrium covered Fenris from head to toe, front and back. They fanned out across his hairless chest, both pectorals covered like the branches of an ancient tree. Then the lines curled down either flank across his ribcage, leaving most of his muscled upper abdomen bare before curving inward across his hips and then arrowing downward into his groin. The lines followed the length of his spine in back, arrowing up and outward to curl at his shoulder blades, his ribs, his rear. Not even his cock had been spared, the currently flaccid length bearing curved markings similar to the ones that marched up the front of his throat.

When the errant thought of what it might be like to trace those lines with his tongue flitted through his mind Hawke forcefully tore his gaze away. He was quite grateful for the relatively loose robes he was wearing at the moment, though, which would hopefully hide the fact that he'd become more than a little hard. Maker save him, but no one should be allowed to look quite _that_ fuckable.

Hawke  was interrupted out of his heated reverie by another soft knock at his door. If possible Fenris stiffened up even more at the sound, posture clearly uncomfortable now though he made no move to cover himself. He wouldn't dare to do so without permission,  he suddenly realized .  It was a heady thing, Hawke  foun d, having such power and control over another living being.  Especially one as proud and beautiful as the elf standing before him.

He mused on it for only a brief moment before taking pity on Fenris and murmuring for him to dress. He waited until the slave was decent before he called out for whomever it was to enter. A female servant pushed through the door carrying a tray laden with food and drink, and it was only then that Hawke remembered that he'd asked to have lunch brought to him earlier that morning.

“Your lunch, Master,” she confirmed with a smile.

“Ah yes. Just set it there and go,” he ordered softly. She immediately stepped forward to do so. The servant wasn't one that he readily recognized, but there had been so much upheaval in the past few weeks that that didn't immediately alarm him as it should have. Still flustered by his somewhat unwilling reaction to Fenris, he turned his back on the woman while she set the tray on the desk.

A careless mistake, but one that he didn't fully realize until a jolt of burning agony suddenly bit into his side. Hawke let out a sharp yell of pain and then tried to whirl on his attacker, but his limbs were suddenly too heavy and refused to respond properly. Worse, he could feel his mana quickly draining away, much like the hot gush of blood now oozing down his flank from the dagger that had been thrust between his ribs. Poison then, fucking magebane. _Of course_ it was.

The mage just managed to turn before he fell back heavily against the bookcase, slithering to the ground as his legs suddenly refused to support his weight. Several tomes became jarred loose from the impact and tumbled down around him, though largely ignored. Instead Hawke clutched a hand to the wound on his side and glared up fearlessly at his would-be assassin, accepting but not afraid of his fate. There was no time to call for help, and no one would reach him in time anyhow. The woman advanced on him with her bloodied dagger raised, no doubt preparing to slit his throat or something equally grisly.

But suddenly the room was lit up with a brilliant flash of bluish-white light, just before a glowing, lyrium-lined fist punched through the woman's chest-cavity from behind. She jerked and gurgled out a pain-filled scream at that, eyes bulging with it. Which only increased in volume when a furiously snarling Fenris snatched the wrist that held the dagger in his other hand and then crushed the bones in his grip without a whisper of struggle. The assassin's now-nerveless fingers immediately released the weapon, causing it to clatter to the floor out of reach.Barely a second later and the slave grabbed her head in both hands and then twisted it sharply to one side, cleanly snapping her neck before letting her body drop to the ground at his feet. Quick, brutally efficient, without an ounce of hesitation or remorse.

Hawke just sat there dumbly, silent for a moment or two, unable to do anything more than stare up at Fenris. Probably a bit woozy from the poison and blood-loss surely, but still . . . .

“Why . . .” he finally attempted to ask, though his voice sounded heavy and slightly slurred even in his own ears. But the answer to this question was important. He had to ask it before he passed out—or died, whichever happened first. “Why did you save me?”

Fenris had been glaring silently at the assassin's body but at the sound of Hawke's voice he startled a bit, as if being yanked out of his own thoughts. And then he just blinked, looking as shocked and confused as Hawke was himself, if not more so.

Before the two of them had a chance to try and puzzle through that, the door suddenly burst open yet again and chaos ensued. Hawke found that he didn't care to pay all that much attention to the handful of guards that rushed into the room, fashionably late of course. A nap sounded much more appealing right now, and his eyes slid shut in order to accommodate it.

Hawke felt rough hands grabbing his face a moment later, shaking his shoulders and demanding that he open his eyes. The mage batted weakly at them though, having utterly no interest in doing anything of the sort. He thought he heard Carver's voice then, yelling harshly for someone to go and fetch Bethany. Hawke winced. Bethany was sure to scold him and that was never a pleasant experience, though he couldn't quite remember why she would need to. Not that Bethany ever needed a _good_ reason to scold him. She was rather like mother in that respect, he suddenly mused.

When Hawke suddenly heard Carver order someone to grab and detain the elf, though, a brief jolt of determined clarity forced his eyes to snap open. He grabbed a fist-full of Carver's jerkin and yanked, forcing his startled brother's gaze on him.

“No,” he insisted fiercely, despite the fact that his voice was impossibly faint and hoarse. “Leave him.” Remaining conscious was becoming more and more difficult, let alone retaining the capability for spoken word, but Hawke forced them out through sheer stubbornness. “He saved me.” The edges of his vision grew dark, sounds strangely echoing and distant. “He saved me . . . .” he heard himself mumble, and then everything went black and silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo . . . yah. I didn't think this chapter would end on a cliff-hanger but . . . SURPRISE! >:D Hopefully I'll have the next chapter out soon though, so you won't have too long of a wait wondering what happened.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I promised a speedy update, and I deliver. :) Enjoy!

_You should have_ _noticed_ _soone_ _r!_

That had been the very first thought that crossed his mind after Fenris realized what was happening. He had been too flustered from Hawke's examination though, his entire body wound so tight with tension and nerves that he thought he might shatter under the tiniest touch. He'd also still been in the process of tugging his tunic back into place, so completely missed it when the servant pulled a dagger from her sleeve and then stabbed the mage.

Fenris had jerked at the sound of Hawke's pained cry, though, then watched somewhat dumbly as the mage fell back against the bookcase and slithered to the ground. For a moment—a costly moment—he had been too shocked and confused to do much more than stare at the blood oozing between fingers that clutched at his side, as well as slowly seeping through the cloth of his blue robes. Staring at the blade of the weapon that had caused the blood to flow, which glinted coldly in the light of the near-by brazier with a sickly purplish green hue; _magebane._ The assassin advanced on his master then, either having dismissed his presence entirely or believing that he wouldn't bother to interfere. A deadly miscalculation on her part, as it turned out.

Though just why that was, Fenris wasn't entirely sure. He was still mentally wrestling with the possible answer to that question, in fact. Was it just muscle memory? A knee-jerk reaction to all the training he'd endured over the years? His master had been in danger and so he had reacted, as simple as that?

Fenris wanted that to be true. It was far simpler, much more easy to deal with. And yet that easy explanation couldn't account for the feeling of . . . well, _rage_ he'd felt at the sight of Hawke wounded. He protected Danarius because it was his duty, he'd be beaten or worse if he didn't comply. He'd protected Hawke because—as odd as it seemed—the thought of the strange Laetan hurt just did not sit well with him at all. But why would he care so much about a virtual stranger, a mage no less? His owner, his keeper, his _master._ Fenris should hate him on principle, his pride demanded no less.

But . . . he didn't. He didn't hate Hawke, not even a little. _Why_ didn't he hate him?

There were no immediate answers forthcoming and not likely to appear any time soon. For the moment Fenris hovered silently along the edge of the room, out of the way of the three guards remaining and forgotten for the most part. By all except Carver that is, who threw him the occasional distrustful glare but made no move other than that. For now, at least. Fenris doubted the mainstay would last, if Hawke didn't pull through. And why did the thought of that possibility suddenly seem so frightening? Was it just the uncertainty of having to face yet another unknown owner in such a short amount of time? Somehow he doubted it was quite that simple.

In moments Bethany was running headlong into the room, shoving aside anyone who was unlucky enough to be caught in her path, a worn leather satchel hanging from one white-knuckled fist.

“Garrett!” she cried out upon seeing her elder brother on the floor, still propped up against the bookcase but his head lolled bonelessly to one side, skin bone-white. Carver knelt at his side, having taken over the task of keeping pressure on the wound when the older mage passed out moments before.

“He's alive,” Carver assured his twin as she hit her knees beside him, “just passed out. I think the knife was poisoned though.”

Bethany nodded to that, tossing open her satchel and yanking out several different potion bottles. “Probably magebane,” she agreed. “Alright, help me get these off so I can see the wound more clearly.”

Bethany started to reach for the fastenings of Hawke's robes but Carver yanked his own dagger from his boot instead. He quickly sliced through the material, ripping and yanking when needed, until Garrett was bare from the waist up. Despite the anxiety of the situation, Fenris couldn't help but take note of the fact that the human was as surprisingly well-built under his clothes as he'd suspected. Thick muscle readily apparent if not sharply defined; wide chest covered in a fine dusting of dark hair. It disappeared over his flat stomach and then started again just below his navel before disappearing to parts unknown below the waist of his robes.

Part of Fenris was more than a little annoyed with himself for bothering to notice such things right now, while the other part of him stubbornly insisted that turnabout was fair play. The human had seen _him_ completely naked, after all.

Meanwhile Bethany handed Carver a bottle of green liquid before placing both of her hands over the still-sluggishly bleeding knife wound. “Here, see if you can get him to swallow this, it should counteract the poison.” Her hands started to glow as she began channeling a healing spell and Fenris grimaced a little, feeling the flare of mana and the immediate pull from his lyrium from across the room. Meanwhile Carver force-fed most of the potion down his brother's throat, fingers coaxing the muscles in his neck to swallow.

The minutes dragged by, each one seeming to take a tiny lifetime, before Hawke's color began to improve and he finally stirred.

“Ugh,” he groaned hoarsely before his eyes managed to crack open, the normally sharp amber orbs hazy with faint confusion and lingering pain.

“Welcome back, brother,” Carver huffed, sitting back on his heels. Hawke reached up to scrub at his face a little before looking down at where Bethany was still channeling magic into his flank.

“Well, I'm not gonna lie,” he suddenly forced out, tone wry despite the severity of the situation, “that hurt more than a little bit.” Bethany stopped casting at that, then Hawke let out a wounded yelp when she immediately smacked him in the shoulder.

“How about you try to go _one_ _week_ without nearly dying on me?” she demanded curtly. “Is that so much to ask for, Big Brother? Just one week!”

“What, you think I _wanted_ to get stabbed?!” he demanded incredulously. “That's not really on my list of favorite things to do, you know.”

“Right now I have no idea what's going on,” she shot back. “Just what in the Maker's name happened in here?”

Hawke lifted his gaze from his siblings' worried faces and immediately centered on Fenris. The elf stood on the other side of the room, silently watching the proceedings with a hooded expression. Hawke felt the tension he hadn't even known was there ebb away at the sight of the elf whole and hale, glad to see that Carver hadn't done anything rash after he'd blacked out. Rather than answer Bethany right away, Hawke sat up from the bookcase and then motioned for Carver to help him stand.

Both of the twins ended up lending their support to the effort, and in the end he wound up leaning most of his weight against the desk on one hip rather than sway woozily. The hole in his gut was healed over, the physical damage repaired, but it would take a little while for his body to replenish the blood he'd lost. Hawke grimaced, tearing away what little remained of the top of his robes with a few sharp tugs. He used the ruined fabric to mop up most of the sticky blood still coating his abdomen before balling it up and tossing it into a corner. At least the elfroot and embrium potion someone had poured into him was neutralizing the magebane in his system. Hawke could feel his mana starting to naturally recharge, though it would be a slow process if left on its own.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Bethany suddenly reached into her satchel of healing supplies and produced a lyrium potion. Hawke took it from her with a thankful nod, uncorking the top and taking a healthy swig of the silvery-blue liquid. Then he turned to the three guards still standing at attention.

“Get that out of here,” he ordered, eyes flicking toward the dead woman on the floor that everyone had completely ignored up until now, “and leave us.” And before Fenris had a chance to follow them out, Hawke turned to the elf and shook his head. “You stay.” The slave didn't move or protest the order, merely remained where he stood.

Hawke waited until the guards had dragged the body out and shut the door behind them, finishing off the lyrium in a few swallows, before he finally answered his sister. “I was examining Fenris' markings when the servant came in with my lunch,” he began, motioning ruefully to the tray of food still sitting on the desk, also having been largely forgotten in all the fuss. “I was . . . distracted,” he hedged. “I turned my back on her and she stabbed me with this.” Hawk bent a little stiffly and plucked the dagger from the ground, brandishing it for the others to see once he straightened. Then he handed it to Carver, who immediately wrapped the tainted blade in another piece of what had been Hawke's robes. “She probably would have killed me if it hadn't been for him.” Hawke turned to Fenris again but the elf wouldn't meet his eyes now, staring at his own feet instead. “Fenris killed her so quickly I almost missed it,” Hawke continued, quietly impressed, “and I was sitting right here when it happened.”

“But why?” Carver demanded, immediately suspicious—as was his nature. Hawke couldn't deny that a part of him—and not an insignificant part—was wondering the very same thing. Bethany scowled, however.

“Oh leave him be, Carver!” she hissed, then turned and approached the slave. “Thank you _so much_ for protecting him, Fenris,” his sister gushed, voice ringing with honest conviction. Hawke almost smiled at the look of uncomfortable confusion that flickered across the elf's face. It was obvious the poor man had absolutely no idea what to do with the full force of Bethany's effusive gratitude. She suddenly reached out, no doubt intending to clasp Fenris on the shoulder or something like it, as Bethany was a physically affectionate person. Hawke tensed but before he could warn against it, Fenris jerked back and out of her reach. Both of them immediately froze afterward, Bethany in confusion and Fenris in discomfort.

“Oh I—,” she suddenly cut herself off and winced, her still-lifted hand curling a little self-consciously before it fell back to her side. “Forgive me, you probably don't like to be touched.”

Fenris looked as flummoxed at Bethany's apology as he had been by Hawke's own, weeks ago. As if no one had ever bothered saying the actual words to him before, and wasn't that just fucking depressing?

“I really meant it though,” Bethany continued earnestly after a brief pause. _“Thank you.”_

“I-it . . . is fine,” Fenris finally managed somewhat awkwardly, before going back to staring at the floor.

“So what do we do about this now?” Carver cut in then, bringing the conversation back to the immediate problem. “Was it Hadriana, do you think?”

“Probably,” Hawke agreed with a sigh, “or one of Danarius' other former allies. Unfortunately we can't really retaliate without knowing exactly who is behind it.” He pondered in silence a moment before continuing, “for now, we keep this as quiet as possible. Don't let them know how close they came to succeeding, and let the silence of their agent reveal their failure. In the meantime I'll speak to Varric and Maevaris about what can be done to try and ferret out the mastermind.”

A moment later Hawke saw Carver and Bethany out of the study; his sister off to go clean up while Carver went to make certain that those who knew about the attack knew to keep silent on the matter. Hawke closed the door behind them both, then turned back to Fenris now that they were alone yet again.

“Well,” he heaved, “that was certainly far more eventful than I had planned.” The elf let out a faint snort and even an eye-roll before he could school the reaction, and Hawke almost smiled. He let a moment or two pass in silence, choosing his next words carefully. “I've never asked you outright what your exact feelings were about your former master. I assumed that it was fairly apparent when you refused to aid him during the duel.” Fenris' face had gone hard with anger long before he finished, and for the first time Hawke noticed— _really_ noticed—the pure hatethat dwelled in those large eyes. “You have no regret that Danarius is dead?” Hawke heard himself question then.

Fenris sneered. “The only _regret_ I feel is that I didn't get the chance to rip the bastard apart with my own hands,” he snarled, “and should Hadriana ever put herself within my reach again, I will not hesitate to do the same to her.”

It was the most he'd ever heard Fenris speak in one single go, and Hawke found he quite liked the sound of it; his voice a deep and growling purr of a tenor. He knew he should probably be a little disturbed or, at the very least, wary of the hot fury practically vibrating off of the elf in waves. Especially in light of the vicious display he'd just witnessed. Unfortunately the only thing Hawke was feeling at the moment was a completely inappropriate stab of pure _want_.

“Well,” he sighed, trying to divert both of their attention, “in light of recent events it seems I might have been a bit hasty before. Seems I might be in need of a bodyguard after all.” Fenris' gaze immediately sharpened on him, eyebrow lifting a little in question. Hawke smiled ruefully. “And you're obviously very well-suited to the role.”

Fenris was back to hiding much of what he was really feeling, that impassive mask having dropped down over his face. Hawke thought he detected just a hint of relief in his eyes though. Perhaps glad to have the return of something he would consider familiar. His only actual response was to bow slightly at the waist, eyes dropping to his toes. “If it is the Master's will,” he murmured in assent.

Hawke just nodded to that. While inwardly telling his traitorous cock and wandering thoughts to stop trying to put that statement into other, far less innocuous scenarios. With varying levels of success.


End file.
